UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Charles   H.    Titus 


WILLIAM  CULLEN   BRYANT. 


THE  EARLY  POEMS 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

WITH 
BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

BY 
NATHAN   HASKELL  DOLE. 


NEW  YORK:  46  EAST  i4TH  STREET. 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 

BOSTON:    100  PURCHASE  STREET. 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  Co. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 

>r- 


PAGE 

^?      Biographical  Sketch      ............  i 

The  Ages    ................  7 

To  the  Past     ...............  26 

Thanatopsis     ...............  29 

The  Lapse  of  Time  .............  33 

To  the  Evening  Wind  ............  36 

Forest  Hymn  ...............  38 

The  Old  Man's  Funeral    ...........  43 

The  Rivulet     ...............  45 

The  Prairies    .     .     .............  49 

Earth      .................  54 

To  the  Apennines    .............  59 

The  Knight's  Epitaph  ............  62 

Seventy-Six     ...............  65 

The  Living  Lost  ..............  67 

The  Strange  Lady    .     ............  69 

^The  Hunter's  Vision    ............  73 

Catterskill  Falls  ..............  76 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies   ..........  81 

The  Damsel  of  Peru     ............  84 

A  Song  of  Pitcairn's  Island  ..........  87 

Rizpah    .........     ........  89 

The  Indian  Girl's  Lament     ..........  93 

The  Arctic  Lover     .............  96 

The  Massacre  at  Scio    ............  98 

Version  of  a  Fragment  of  Simonides  .......  99 

The  Greek  Partisan      ............  101 

Romero  .................  103 

Monument  Mountain    ............  107 

The  Murdered  Traveller   ......         ....  113 

3 


473658 


4  CONTENTS. 

Song  of  the  Greek  Amazon 115 

The  African  Chief 117 

Song —  "Soon  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow  "   .     .  120 

1  An  Indian  Story 121 

The  Hunter's  Serenade 125 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 128 

Song— "Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear" 131 

Love  and  Folly 133 

Fatiuia  and  Kaduan 135 

The  Death  of  Aliatar 138 

The  Alcayde  of  Molina 141 

From  the  Spanish  of  Villegas 144 

The  Life  of  the  Blessed 145 

Mary  Magdalen 147 

The  Siesta 149 

From  the  Spanish  of  Pedro  de  Castro  y  Afiaya    .     .     .  151 

The  Count  of  Greiers  — From  the  German      ....  153 

Song  —  From  the  Spanish  of  Iglesias 157 

Sonnet  —  From  the  Portuguese  of  Semedo      ....  158 

Love  in  the  Age  of  Chivalry 159 

The  Love  of  God 161 

The  Hurricane 163 

March 165 

Spring  in  Town 167 

Summer  Wind 170 

Autumn  Woods 172 

A  Winter  Piece 175 

"Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids!" 180 

The  Disinterred  Warrior 182 

The  Greek  Boy 184 

"  Upon  the  mountain's  distant  head  " 186 

Sonnet  — William  Tell 187 

To  the  River  Arve 188 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood 190 

*'  When  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young 

beam" 192 

A  Scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Hudson 194 

The  West  Wind 196 


CONTENTS.  5 

To  a  Mosquito 198 

"I  broke  the  spell  that  held  me  long" 202 

The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and  Venus 203 

June 207 

The  Two  Graves 210 

The  New  Moon 214 

The  Gladness  of  Nature 216 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 218 

"  Innocent  Child  and  Snow-white  Flower  "     ....  219 

Sonnet  — Midsummer 220 

Sonnet— October 221 

Sonnet  —  November 222 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal  .     .     .     .     .     .     .  223 

An  Indian  at  the  Burial-place  of  his  Fathers  .     .     .     .  228 

Sonnet  — To  Cole,  the  painter,  departing  for  Europe  .  232 

Green  River 233 

To  a  Cloud 236 

After  a  Tempest 238 

The  Burial-place  —  A  Fragment 241 

The  Yellow  Violet 244 

"  I  cannot  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion  "      .     .     .  246 

Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country 248 

Sonnet  — Mutation 250 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star 251 

The  Twenty-second  of  December 253 

Ode  for  an  Agricultural  Celebration 254 

A  Walk  at  Sunset 256 

Hymn  of  the  Waldenses 259 

Song  of  the  Stars 261 

Hymn  of  the  City 264 

"No  Man  Knoweth  his  Sepulchre" 266 

"Blessed  are  they  that  mourn" 267 

The  Skies 269 

The  Journey  of  Life 272 

Sonnet— To 273 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 274 

Hymn  to  Death 277 

"  Earth's  children  cleave  to  earth  " 284 


6  CONTENTS. 

To  a  Waterfowl 285 

The  Battle-field 287 

The  Child's  Funeral 289 

The  Fountain 292 

The  Winds 298 

The  Green  Mountain  Boys 302 

The  Death  of  Schiller 304 

Life 306 

A  Presentiment 309 

The  Future  Life 311 

The  Old  Man's  Counsel 313 

A  Serenade.     From  the  Spanish 317 

To  the  Memory  of  William  Leggett 320 

An  Evening  Revery 321 

The  Painted  Cup 324 

A  Dream 326 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 329 

A  Summer  Ramble 333 

A  Northern  Legend 336 

The  Maiden's  Sorrow 338 

The  Return  of  Youth 340 

A  Hymn  of  .the  Sea 342 

Noon    .     345 

The  Crowded  Street 348 

The  White-footed  Deer 350 

The  Waning  Moon 353 

The  Stream  of  Life 355 

Notes    .                                                                             .  357 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 

OF 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


WILLIAM  CCLLEN  BRYANT  was  born  November  3,  1794, 
at  Cummington,  Hampshire  County,  in  Western  Massachu- 
setts. 

Like  Longfellow,  he  was  descended  from  Captain  John 
Alden  and  Priscilla  Mullins.  He  had  a  threefold  claim  to 
inheritance  from  the  pilgrims  of  the  "  Mayflower." 

On  both  sides  he  came  from  an  active  and  long-lived  race. 
His  great-grandfather,  Dr.  Ichabod  Bryant,  was  a  man  of 
"  gigantic  size  and  strength."  His  grandfather,  Dr.  Philip 
Bryant,  lived  to  be  eighty-five  and  visited  his  patients  till  a 
fortnight  before  he  died.  His  father  was  so  muscular  that 
he  could  lift  a  barrel  of  cider  into  the  cart  over  the  wheel. 
His  maternal  grandmother,  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven,  was 
able,  unaided,  to  mount  a  horse  from  the  ground. 

His  father,  Dr.  Peter  Bryant,  might  in  happier  circum- 
stances have  been  illustrious.  Left  at  the  age  of  eight  to 
the  charge  of  an  avaricious  uncle,  his  early  education  was 
wholly  neglected.  In  spite  of  every  discouragement  he  fitted 
himself  for  Harvard,  but  was  not  allowed  to  proceed  with 
the  course.  His  knowledge  of  medicine  was  entirely  acquired 
i 


11  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCU. 

at  home,  except  for  a  year's  instruction  under  Dr.  Pritete,  a 
celebrated  French  surgeon,  and.  a  course  of  lectures  at 
Cambridge.  At  the  age  of  twenty -five  his  property  con- 
sisted of  a  horse,  a  few  books,  and  twenty-five  dollars'  worth 
of  medicines.  With  that  capital  he  established  himself  at 
Cummington.  His  knowledge  of  men,  but  not  his  means, 
was  increased  by  a  voyage  to  the  East  Indies  as  surgeon  to 
a  merchant  vessel.  The  vessel  was  confiscated  at  Mauritius, 
where  Dr.  Bryant  was  obliged  to  remain  more  than  a  year, 
thus  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  French  and,  it  is  surmised,  a 
more  liberal  theology  than  the  rigid  Calvinism  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  up. 

The  books,  curiosities,  surgical  instruments,  and  botanical 
specimens  which  he  had  collected  during  his  absence,  were 
all  lost,  together  with  his  luggage,  toward  the  end  of  his 
voyage  home  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  He  landed 
"  truly  and  literally  poor." 

Nevertheless  from  1806  till  1813  he  represented  his  county 
in  the  General  Court,  and  was  afterward  State  Senator  for 
two  years. 

Bryant  says  in  his  autobiography  :  — 

"  My  father  delighted  in  poetry,  and  in  his  library  were 
the  works  of  most  of  the  eminent  English  poets.  He  wrote 
verses  himself,  mostly  humorous  and  satirical.  He  was  not 
unskilled  in  Latin  poetry,  in  which  the  odes  of  Horace  were 
his  favorites.  He  was  fond  of  music,  played  on  the  violin, 
and  I  remember  hearing  him  say  that  he  once  made  a  bass 
viol  —  for  he  was  very  ingenious  in  the  use  of  tools  —  and 
played  upon  it. 

' '  He  was  of  a  mild  and  indulgent  temper,  somewhat 
silent — though  not  hesitating  in  conversation,  and  never  ex- 
patiated at  much  length  on  any  subject.  His  patients  gen- 
erally paid  him  whatever  they  pleased,  if  ever  so  little,  so 
that  he  could  not  by  any  means  be  called  a  thriving  man. 
In  one  respect  he  did  not  stint  himself  :  he  always  dressed 
well.  ...  He  had  a  certain  metropolitan  air." 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  iii 

Four  of  Dr.  Bryant's  sisters  also  wrote  verses,  but  if  Wil- 
liam Cullen  inherited  his  genius  from  his  father's  family,  he 
had  no  ear  for  music. 

Dr.  Bryant  married  Sarah  Snell,  who,  like  himself,  had 
been  born  at  North  Bridgewater.  With  little  chance  for 
education,  she  nevertheless  made  the  most  of  her  opportu- 
nities, and  became  a  power  for  good  in  her  neighborhood. 
She  was  indefatigable  in  her  household  duties,  tending 
carefully  to  the  necessary  economies  of  a  poor  doctor's 
family,  spinning  and  weaving,  making  her  children's  clothes, 
teaching  them  to  read  and  write,  and  doing  all  the  manifold 
work  of  the  mother  of  a  large  family.  If  her  neighbors 
needed  her  help,  she  gave  it,  often  nursing  the  sick  for  days 
at  a  time.  She  took  a  deep  interest  in  public  affairs,  and  was 
influential  in  improving  schools  and  roads,  and  the  planting 
of  trees.  One  of  her  favorite  mottoes  was,  "  Never  be  idle," 
and  she  carried  it  out  to  the  letter. 

Dr.  Bryant's  library  contained  upwards  of  seven  hundred 
volumes,  and  included  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope, 
Burns,  Cowper,  Scott,  Southey,  and  Wordsworth.  All  the 
family  were  great  readers,  and  winter  evenings  the  boys  used 
to  lie  on  their  backs  on  the  floor,  making  the  most  of  the 
nickering  light  of  the  birch  logs  in  the  fireplace. 

William  Cullen  knew  the  alphabet  by  the  time  he  was  six- 
teen months  old,  and  before  he  was  four  he  was  sent  to  the 
district  school.  When  he  was  five  he  used  to  stand  on  a 
settle  and  declaim  Watts's  hymns.  At  eight  he  began  to 
write  verses. 

At  this  time  Dr.  Bryant  and  his  family,  after  several 
moves,  had  been  living  for  about  three  years  at  the  home- 
stead of  his  father-in-law,  Ebenezer  Snell,  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  and  a  man  of  great  character  and  ow.  He  set  his 
young  grandson  at  versifying  passages  of  Scripture.  Several 
specimens  are  preserved,  but  the  earlier  ones  show  more 
immaturity  than  his  original  effusions.  Thus  he  began  the 
first  chapter  of  Job  :  — 


IV  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

"  His  name  was  Job,  evil  did  he  eschew. 
To  him  were  born  seven  sons :  three  daughters,  too." 

His  father  criticised  it  and  he  began  again :  — 

"  Job,  just  and  good,  in  Uz  had  sojourned  long  ; 
He  feared  his  God,  and  shunned  the  way  of  wrong. 
Three  were  his  daughters,  and  his  sons  were  seven, 
And  large  the  wealth  bestowed  on  him  by  heaven. 
Seven  thousand  sheep  were  in  his  pastures  fed, 
Three  thousand  camels  by  his  train  were  led  ; 
For  him  the  yoke  a  thousand  oxen  wore, 
Five  hundred  she-asses  his  burdens  bore. 
His  household  to  a  mighty  host  increased, 
The  greatest  man  was  Job  in  all  the  East." 

About  the  same  time  he  celebrated  the  June  eclipse  of  the 
Sun  (1806)  in  heroic  verse.  It  began :  — 

"  How  awfully  sublime  and  grand  to  see 
The  lamp  of  Day  wrap'ed  in  Obscurity! 
To  see  the  sun  remove  behind  the  moon, 
And  nightly  darkness  shroud  the  day  at  noon  ! 
The  birds  no  longer  feel  his  genial  ray, 
But  cease  to  sing  and  sit  upon  the  spray. 
A  solemn  gloom  and  stillness  spreads  around, 
Reigns  in  the  air  and  broods  o'er  all  the  ground. 
Once  smiling  Nature  wears  another  face  ; 
The  blooming  meadow  loses  half  its  grace  ; 
All  things  are  silent  save  the  chilling  breeze 
That  in  low  whispers  rustles  through  the  trees. 
The  stars  break  forth  and  stud  the  azure  sky, 
And  larger  planets  meet  the  wondering  eye." 

He  also  delivered  an  original  address  for  a  school  exami- 
nation ;  and  this  effusion,  which  dealt  in  heroic  couplets 
with  the  progress  of  knowledge,  was  afterwards  printed  in 
the  Salem  Gazette.  His  father  said,  "  H«  will  be  ashamed 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  v 

of  his  verses  when  he  is  grown  up."  That  was  a  correct 
prediction.  Nevertheless,  Dr.  Bryant,  the  following  year 
took  with  him  to  Boston  a  metrical  invective  by  his  son,  and 
had  it  printed  in  a  pamphlet  entitled  "  The  Embargo  ;  or, 
Sketches  of  the  Times:  a  Satire  by  a  Youth  of  Thirteen." 
It  contained  the  following  passages,  which,  of  course,  show 
the  influence  of  Pope  and  Dryden  :  — 

JEFFERSON. 

"  And  thou,  the  scorn  of  every  patriot  name, 
Thy  country's  ruin  and  thy  council's  shame, 
Poor  servile  thing.!  derision  of  the  brave 
Who  erst  from  Tarleton  fled  to  Carter's  cave  ; 
Thou  who  when  menac'd  by  perfidious  Gaul 
Didst  prostrate  to  her  whisker'd  minion  fall ; 
And  when  our  cash  her  empty  bags  supply'd 
Didst  meanly  strive  the  foul  disgrace  to  hide  ; 
Go,  wretch,  resign  the  presidential  chair, 
Disclose  thy  secret  measures,  foul  or  fair. 
Go,  search  with  curious  eye  for  horned  frogs, 
'Mid  the  wild  wastes  of  Louisianian  bogs, 
Or,  where  Ohio  rolls  his  turbid  stream, 
Dig  for  huge  bones,  thy  glory  and  thy  theme. 
Go,  scan,  Philosophist,  thy  Sally's  charms, 
And  sink  supinely  in  her  sable  arms, 
But  quit  to  abler  hands  the  helm  of  state." 

VICE. 

"  Look  where  we  will,  and  in  whatever  land, 
Europe's  rich  soil,'  or  Afric's  barren  sand, 
Where  the  wild  savage  hunts  his  wilder  prey,  • 
Or  art  or  science  pour  their  brightest  day, 
The  monster  Vice  appears  before  our  eyes 
In  naked  impudence  or  gay  disguise. 

But  quit  the  meaner  game,  indignant  Muse, 
And  to  thy  country  turn  thy  nobler  views  ; 


Vi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Ill-fated  clime  !  condemn'd  to  feel  th'  extremes 
Of  a  weak  ruler's  philosophic  dreams  ; 
Driven  headlong  on  to  ruin's  fateful  brink, 
When  will  thy  country  feel  ?  when  will  she  think  ? 

Satiric  Muse,  shall  injured  Commerce  weep 

Her  ravish' d  nights,  and  will  thy  thunders  sleep  ? 

Dart  thy  keen  glances,  knit  thy  threatening  brows, 

Call  fire  from  heaven  to  blast  thy  country's  foes. 

Oh  !  let  a  youth  thine  inspiration  learn  ! 

Oh  !  give  him  words  that  breathe  and  thoughts  that  burn  ! 

Curse  of  our  nation,  source  of  countless  woes, 
From  whose  dark  womb  unreckou'd  misery  flows, 
The  Embargo  rages,  like  a  sweeping  wind  ; 
Fear  lowers  before,  and  Famine  stalks  behind." 

THE  FACTION'S  DEMAGOGUE. 

"E'en  while  I  sing,  see  Faction  urge  her  claim, 
Mislead  with  falsehood,  and  with  zeal  inflame  ; 
Lift  her  black  banner,  spread  her  empire  wide, 
And  stalk  triumphant  with  a  fury's  stride. 
She  blows  her  brazen  trump,  and  at  the  sound 
A  motley  throng,  obedient,  flock  around ; 
A  mist  of  changing  hues  o'er  all  she  flings, 
And  darkness  perches  on  her  dragon  wings. 
As  Johnson  deep,  as  Addison  refin'd, 
And  skill'd  to  pour  conviction  o'er  the  mind. 
Oh,  might  some  patriot  rise,  the  gloom  dispel, 
Chase  Error's  mist  and  break  her  magic  spell  I 

But  vain  the  wish,  for  hark  !  the  murmuring  meed 
Of  hoarse  applause  from  yonder  shed  proceed ; 
Enter  and  view  the  gaping  concourse  there, 
Intent  with  gaping  mouth  and  stupid  stare, 
While  in  the  midst  their  supple  leader  stands, 
Harangues  aloud,  and  flourishes  his  hands  ; 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  vii 

To  adulation  tunes  his  servile  throat. 

And  sues,  successful,  for  each  blockhead's  vote." 

The  satire  met  with  a  rapid  sale  among  the  Federalists, 
who  at  that  time  delighted  in  any  sort  of  scurrility.  A 
second  edition  was  soon  issued,  corrected,  and  enlarged,  and 
accompanied  by  a  number  of  other  poems,  the  longest  of 
which  —  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  lines  —  was  entitled 
"  The  Spanish  Revolution." 

Some  doubt  having  been  expressed  whether  a  youth  of 
thirteen  could  have  written  the  "  Embargo,"  the  new  edition 
contained  an  "advertisement,"  certifying  the  fact  from 
"  personal  knowledge  of  himself  and  his  family,  as  well  as 
of  his  literary  improvement  and  extraordinary  talents."  It 
contained  also  a  preface,  in  which  the  author  declares  that 
he  "is  far  from  thinking  that  all  his  errors  were  expunged, 
or  all  his  faults  corrected,"  adding,  "  Indeed,  were  that  the 
case,  he  is  suspicious  that  the  '  composition '  would  cease  to 
be  his  own." 

The  first  example  of  Bryant's  blank  verse  is  interesting. 
It  is  a  version  of  David's  lament  over  Saul  and  Jonathan, 
and  was  also  written  at  his  grandfather  Snell's  instigation :  — 

"The  beautiful  of  Israel's  land  lie  slain 
On  the  high  places.     How  the  mighty  ones 
Are  fallen  !    Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  nor  sound 
The  tidings  in  the  streets  of  Ascalon, 
Lest  there  the  daughters  of  the  Philistines 
Rejoice  ;  lest  there  the  heathen  maidens  sing 
The  song  of  triumph.     Oh,  ye  mountain  slopes, 
Ye  Heights  of  Gilboa,  let  there  be  no  rain 
Nor  dew  upon  you  ;  let  no  offerings  smoke 
Upon  your  fields,  for  there  the  strong  man's  shield, 
The  shield  of  Saul,  was  vilely  cast  away, 
As  tho'  he  ne'er  had  been  anointed  king. 
From  bloody  fray,  from  conflict  to  the  death, 
With  men  of  might  the  bow  of  Jonathan 


Vlll  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Turned  never  back,  nor  did  the  sword  of  Saul 

Return  without  the  spoils  of  victory. 

Joined  in  their  loves  and  pleasant  in  their  lives 

Were  Saul  and  Jonathan  ;  nor  in  their  deaths 

Divided.     Swifter  were  they  in  pursuit 

Than  eagles,  and  of  more  than  lion  strength. 

Weep,  Israel's  daughters,  over  Saul  who  robed 

Your  limbs  in  scarlet,  adding  ornaments 

That  ye  delight  in,  ornaments  of  gold  ! 

How  are  the  mighty  fallen  in  the  heat 

Of  battle  !     Oh,  my  brother  Jonathan, 

Slain  on  the  heights,  my  heart  is  wrung  for  thee  ! 

My  brother,  very  pleasant  hast  thou  been 

To  me ;  thy  love  for  me  was  wonderful, 

Passing  the  love  of  women.     How  are  fallen 

The  mighty  !  and  their  weapons  lie  in  dust." 

It  was  decided,  in  view  of  such  talent,  that  the  boy 
should  go  to  college,  and  he  was  sent  to  his  uncle,  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Snell,  at  North  Brookfield,  for  the  prepara- 
tory course  in  Latin.  Here,  at  his  father's  desire,  he 
occupied  himself  with  rendering  into  English  verse  pas- 
sages from  the  JEneid,  The  following  description  of  the 
storm  from  Book  I.,  though  Bryant  wrote  his  father  that 
he  would  doubtless  find  in  it  much  that  -needed  emenda- 
tion, and  much  that  characterized  the  crude  efforts  of 
puerility,  is  not  a  discreditable  effort  for  a  lad  in  his 
fifteenth  year :  — 

"  JEolus  spake,  and  with  a  godlike  might 
Impelled  his  spear  against  the  mountain's  height. 
Straight  the  freed  winds  forsake  their  rocky  cell, 
And  o'er  the  earth  in  furious  whirlwinds  swell. 
The  South-west,  laden  with  its  tempests  dire. 
Fierce  Eurus  and  the  raging  South  conspire  ; 
Disclose  the  ocean's  depths  with  dreadful  roar 
And  roll  vast  surges  thundering  to  the  shore.      . 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  ix 

The  cordage  breaks,  the  seamen  raise  their  cries, 
Clouds  veil  the  smiling  day  and  cheerful  skies  ; 
Blue  lightnings  glare,  redoubled  thunder  rolls, 
And  frowning  darkness  shrouds  the  dreary  poles  ! 
While  instant  ruin  threatening  every  eye, 
Hangs  on  the  waves,  or  lowers  from  the  sky  ! 

A  mighty  wave  descending  from  on  high, 
Death  on  its  brow  —  before  the  hero's  eye, 
Fell  on  the  ships  which  bore  the  Lycian  crew 
And  headlong  from  his  seat  the  pilot  threw. 
Thrice  the  swift  vortex  whirled  the  vessel  round, 
And  straight  ingulphed  it  in  the  deep  profound  ! 
Then  o'er  the  waves,  in  thick  confusion  spread, 
Rose  arms,  and  planks,  and  bodies  of  the  dead." 

During  this  absence  he  wrote  a  poetic  letter  to  his  brother 
Austin.  It  contained  one  hundred  and  eighty  lines,  of  which 
the  following  have  been  preserved :  — 

"  Once  more  the  bard,  with  eager  eye,  reviews 
The  flowery  path  of  Fancy,  and  the  Muse 
Once  more  essays  to  trill  forgotten  strains, 
The  loud  amusement  of  his  native  plains. 
Late  you  beheld  me  treading  labor's  round 
To  guide  slow  oxen  o'er  the  furrowed  ground  ; 
The  sturdy  hoe  or  slender  rake  to  ply 
Midst  dust  and  sweat,  beneath  a  summer  sky. 
But  now  I  pore  o'er  Virgil's  glowing  lines, 
Where,  famed  in  war,  the  great  ^Eneas  shines ; 
Where  novel  scenes  around  me  seem  to  stand, 
Lo  !  grim  Alecto  whirls  the  flaming  brand. 
Dire  jarring  tumult,  death  and  battle  rage, 
Fierce  armies  close,  and  daring  chiefs  engage  ; 
Mars  thunders  furious  from  his  flying  car, 
And  hoarse-toned  clarions  stir  the  raging  war. 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Nor  with  less  splendor  does  his  master  hand 
Paint  the  blue  skies,  the  ocean,  and  the  land ; 
Majestic  mountains  rear  their  awful  head, 
Fair  plains  extend  and  bloomy  vales  are  spread. 
The  rugged  cliff  in  threatening  grandeur  towers, 
And  joy  sports  smiling  in  Arcadian  bowers  ; 
In  silent  calm  the  expanded  ocean  sleeps ; 
Or  boisterous  whirlwinds  toss  the  rising  deeps  ; 
Triumphant  vessels  o'er  his  rolling  tide 
With  painted  prows  and  gaudy  streamers  glide." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Bryant  had  easily  caught  the  trick  of 
the  classic  English  couplet.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  in 
the  poems,  which  he  was  afterwards  willing  to  father,  there 
is  not  a  single  example  of  this  monotonous,  artificial  ver.se. 
The  little  autobiographic  touches  in  the  first  ten  lines  of  the 
"epistle"  point  back  to  the  strenuous  days  of  his  boyhood, 
when,  in  spite  of  his  feeble  health,  he  had  to  lend  a  hand  in 
keeping  the  wolf  from  the  door.  But  he  might  have  made 
the  third  and  fourth  lines  truer  to  the  fact  had  he  changed 
his  native  plains  to  hills  and  rhymed  it  with  trills,  which  was, 
as  it  were,  latent  in  the  preceding  line  ! 

Bryant  remained  with  his  uncle  until  July,  1809.  Dur- 
ing the  eight  months  of  his  Latin  studies  there  he  read  the 
"  Colloquies  of  Corderius,"  all  of  Virgil,  and  a  volume  of 
Cicero's  orations. 

He  then  spent  more  than  a  year  under  the  roof  of  the 
Rev.  Moses  Halleck  or  Hallock  of  Plainfield  —  a  gentleman, 
Bryant  says,  "somewhat  famous  for  preparing  youths  for 
college,  and  his  house  was  called  by  some  the  Bread-and- 
Milk  College,  for  the  reason  that  bread-and-milk  was  a  fre- 
quent dish  at  the  good  man's  table."  Here  in  two  months' 
time  he  "  knew  the  Greek  Testament  as  if  it  had  been 
English." 

He  entered  Williams  College,  then  a  poor  struggling  insti- 
tution with  a  president,  one  professor,  and  two  tutors.  He 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  X; 

was  still  interested  in  politics,  but  had  transferred  his  vials 
of  Federalist  wrath  from  Jefferson  to  Napoleon.  The  fol- 
lowing "outbreak  of  patriotic  valor"  is  preserved  with  its 
date,  January  8,  1810. 

THE    GENIUS   OF   COLUMBIA. 

"  Far  in  the  regions  of  the  west, 

On  throne  of  adamant  upraised, 
Bright  on  whose  polished  sides  impressed, 
The  Sun's  meridian  splendors  blazed, 

Columbia's  Genius  sat  and  eyed 

The  Eastern  despot's  dire  career, 
And  thus  with  independent  pride, 

She  spoke  and  bade  the  nations  hear :  — 

4  Go,  favored  son  of  glory,  go  ! 

Thy  dark  aspiring  aims  pursue  ! 
The  blast  of  domination  blow, 

Earth's  wide  extended  regions  through  ! 

*  Tho'  Austria,  twice  subjected,  own 
The  thunders  of  thy  conquering  hand, 

And  Tyranny  erect  his  throne 
In  hapless  Sweden's  fallen  land  ! 

'  Yet  know,  a  nation  lives,  whose  soul 

Regards  thee  with  disdainful  eye  ; 
Undaunted  scorns  thy  proud  control, 

And  dares  thy  swarming  hordes  defy  ; 

4  Unshaken  as  their  native  rocks, 

Its  hardy  sons  heroic  rise; 
Prepared  to  meet  thy  fiercest  shocks, 

Protected  by  the  favoring  skies. 


Xli  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

4  Their  fertile  plains  and  woody  hills 
Are  fanned  by  freedom's  purest  gales  ! 

And  her  celestial  presence  fills 
The  deepening  glens  and  spacious  vales.' 

She  speaks  ;  through  all  her  listening  bands 

A  loud  applauding  murmur  flies  ; 
Fresh  valor  nerves  their  willing  hands, 

And  lights  with  joy  their  glowing  eyes  I 

Then  should  Napoleon's  haughty  pride 
Wake  on  our  shores  the  fierce  affray ; 

Grim  Terror  lowering  at  his  side 
Attendant  on  his  furious  way  ! 

With  quick  repulse,  his  baffled  band 
Would  seek  the  friendly  shore  in  vain  ; 

Bright  Justice  lift  her  red  right  hand 
And  crush  them  on  the  fatal  plain." 

Bryant  was  educated  in  accordance  with  the  Calvinistio 
system  of  theology.  "  In  a  community  so  religious,"  he 
says,  "  I  naturally  acquired  habits  of  devotion.  My  mother 
and  grandmother  had  taught  me,  as  soon  as  I  could  speak, 
the  Lord's  Prayer  and  other  little  petitions  suited  to  child- 
hood, and  I  may  be  said  to  have  been  nurtured  on  Watts's 
devout  poems  composed  for  children.  The  prayer  of  the 
publican  in  the  New  Testament  was  often  in  my  mouth,  and 
I  heard  every  variety  of  prayer  at  the  Sunday  evening  ser- 
vices conducted  by  laymen  in  private  houses.  But  I  varied 
in  my  private  devotions  from  these  models  in  one  respect  ; 
namely,  in  supplicating,  as  I  often  did,  that  I  might  receive 
the  gift  of  poetic  genius  and  write  verses  that  might  endure. 
I  presented  this  petition  in  those  early  years  with  great 
fervor,  but  after  a  time  I  discontinued  the  practice,  I  can 
hardly  say  why." 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xiii 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  become  conscious  of  having 
received  the  gift. 

Bryant  entered  college  a  year  in  advance,  but  he  remained 
only  seven  months  with  his  class,  lie  was  described  as 
"  well  advanced  in  his  sixteenth  year,  tall  and  slender  in 
his  physical  structure,  and  having  a  prolific  growth  of  dark 
brown  hair." 

While  he  was  at  Williams,  he  wrote  an  "Indian  War 
Song,"  which  began  thus:  — 

"  Ghosts  of  my  wounded  brethren  rest, 

Shades  of  the  warrior-dead  ! 
Nor  weave,  in  shadowy  garment  drest 

The  death-dance  round  my  bed  ; 
For  by  the  homes  in  which  we  dwelt, 
And  by  the  altars  where  we  knelt, 

And  by  our  dying  battle  songs, 
And  by  the  trophies  of  your  pride, 
And  by  the  wounds  of  which  ye  died, 

I  swear  to  avenge  your  wrongs." 

The  North  American  Indian  exercised  a  strange  and  un- 
conquerable fascination  on  the  muse  which  inspired  all  our 
early  poets :  Longfellow,  Whittier,  and  Bryant  were  deeply 
enamoured  of  the  poetic  hues  which  hung  over  the  aborigine. 
A  century  of  dishonor  has  had  its  retroactive  effect.  The 
Red  Skin  has  vanished  from  modern  verse,  as  he  has  van- 
ished from  our  denuded  hills. 

Another  of  Bryant's  college  exercises  was  a  translation 
from  Anacreon,  which  still  exists  in  two  forms,  one  preserved 
by  his  roommate,  John  Avery,  the  other  Bryant's  attempt  to 
reproduce  it  by  memory.  It  has  been  favorably  compared 
with  Moore's  version :  — 


Lo  !  fragrant  spring  returns  again 
With  all  the  graces  in  her  train  ! 


xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

See,  charmed  to  life  the  budding  rose 
Its  meek  and  purple  eyes  unclose  ; 
Mark  how  the  ocean's  dimpling  breast 
Slow  swelling  sinks  in  tranquil  rest ! 
O'er  the  green  billow  heaving  wide 
The  sportive  sea-fowls  gently  glide  ; 
The  crane  returned  from  tropic  shores 
Bends  his  long  neck  and  proudly  soars. 
Clear  smiles  the  sun  with  constant  ray 
And  melts  the  shadowy  mists  away  ; 
The  works  of  busy  man  appear 
Fair  smiling  with  the  smiling  year ; 
With  future  plenty  teems  the  earth, 
And  gives  the  swelling  olive  birth. 
Haste,  quick  the  genial  goblet  bring 
Crowned  with  the  earliest  flowers  of  spring, 
While  ruddy  fruits  depending  bloom 
Where  late  the  blossom  breathed  perfume, 
Along  the  bending  bough  are  seen 
Or  peep  beneath  the  foliage  green." 

One  of  the  exercises  at  Williams  was  declamation.  Bryant 
attempted  to  deliver  a  passage  from  "  Knickerbocker's  History 
of  New  York,"  but  the  humor  of  the  work  so  convulsed  him 
that  he  could  not  proceed  with  it. 

The  young  poet  evidently  did  not  form  a  wholly  favorable 
idea  of  Williamstown.  He  wrote  a  satire  on  it  in  which  he 
spoke  of  it  as  — 

"  Hemmed  in  with  hills,  whose  heads  aspire 
Abrupt  and  rude  and  hung  with  woods," 

but  the  climate  abuses  it  now  with  "  a  lengthened  blaze  of 
drought,"  and  again  "  with  the  tempest's  copious  floods." 

"  A  frozen  desert  now  it  lies 
And  now  a  sea  of  mud," 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XV 

from  which  deleterious  exhalations  rise, 

"  And  hover  o'er  the  unconscious  vale, 
And  sleep  upon  the  mountain  side." 

As  for  the  college  — 

"  Why  should  I  sing  those  reverend  domes 

Where  science  rests  in  grave  repose  ? 
Ah  .me  !  their  terrors  and  their  glooms 

Only  the  wretched  inmate  knows. 
Where  through  the  horror-breathing  hall 
The  pale-faced,  moping  students  crawl 

Like  spectral  monuments  of  woe  ; 
Or,  drooping,  seek  the  unwholesome  cell 
Where  shade,  and  dust,  and  cobwebs  dwell, 

Dark,  dirty,  dank,  and  low." 

If  that  was  the  way  he  felt,  it  was  not  strange  that  he 
should  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  Williams  and  enter  the 
junior  class  at  Yale  ;  but  greatly  to  his  disappointment  his 
father  discovered  that  his  means  did  not  allow  him  to  main- 
tain him  there.  "  I  have  always  thought  this  unfortunate 
for  me,"  wrote  Bryant,  "  since  it  left  me  but  superficially 
acquainted  with  several  branches  of  education  which  a 
college  course  would  have  enabled  me  to  master  and  would 
have  given  me  greater  readiness  in  their  application."  Per- 
haps it  was  not  so  much  of  a  loss  as  he  thought. 
'-  He  returned  home  much  to  the  delight  of  his  younger 
brothers  and  sisters,  whose  leader  he  was  in  all  sports  and 
wanderings.  His  brother  Arthur  remembered  their  antiph- 
onal  declamation  of  William  Cullen's  translations  from  the 
"  Oidipous  "  of  Euripides  :  — 


"  Where  is  the  wretch  condemned  to  death 
From  Delphi's  rock  sublime  ? 


*vi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Who  bears  upon  his  hands  of  blood 

The  inexpiable  crime  ? 
Oh,  swifter  than  the  winged  pace 

Of  stormy-footed  steed, 
Fly,  murderer,  fly  the  wrath  that  waits 

The  unutterable  deed ! 
For  lo  !  he  follows  on  thy  path 

Who  fell  before  thee  late 
With  gleaming  arms  and  glowing  flame, 

And  fierce,  avenging  hate. 

ANTISTROPHE    I. 

I  heard  the  God  of  prophecies 

From  high  Parnassus  speak, 
Where  lurks  the  guilty  fugitive 

Apollo  bids  us  seek  ? 

'Mong  rocks  and  caves  and  shadowy  woods 

And  wild  untrodden  ways, 
As  some  lone  ox  that  leaves  the  herd, 

The  trembling  outlaw  strays  ; 
Yet  vainly  from  impending  doom 

The  assassin  strives  to  haste  ; 
It  lives  and  keeps  eternal  watch, 

Amid  the  pathless  waste." 

While  "through  the  long  laborious  day"  — ("for  mine 
has  been  the  peasant's  toil,"  he  sings)— he  "hummed  the 
meditated  lay,  while  the  slow  oxen  turned  the  soil,"  he  was 
all  the  time  laying  up  a  store  of  sound  health  on  which  he 
drew  all  his  long  life.  But  he  also  found  opportunities  to 
explore  his  father's  medical  library  ;  he  acquired  a  consider- 
able knowledge  of  chemistry  ;  he  became  an  accomplished 
botanist ;  and  he  devoured  and  assimilated  a  vast  quantity 
of  ancient  and  modern  poetry.  lie  translated  four  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  xvii 

Lucian's  "  Dialogues  of  the  Dead  "  into  prose,  made  ver- 
sions of  several  odes  of  Anakreon,  one  of  Bion's  idyls,  vari- 
ous choruses  from  Sophokles  and  other  Greek  poetry,  and 
wrote  original  poems  that  showed  the  influence  of  Words- 
worth, Cowper,  Thomson,  and  Southey.  Kirke  White  also 
during  that  spring  and  summer  of  1810  exerted  a  peculiar 
fascination  upon  him.  He  called  his  verses  recently  pub- 
lished, "Melodies  of  Death."  Blair's  poem,  "The  Grave," 
and  another  by  Bishop  Porteus,  strongly  affected  him,  and 
stirred  him  to  the  composition  of  a  poem  which  Stoddard 
calls  "the  greatest  ever  written  by  so  young  a  man."  He 
coined  a  name  for  it  — "  Thanatopsis  ;  or,  a  View  of  Death." 
But  he  did  not  show  it  to  any  of  his  friends  ;  he  hid  it  in  a 
pigeon-hole  of  his  father's  desk. 

Instead  of  following  the  paternal  ancestral  profession  of 
medicine,  the  young  man  finally  selected  that  of  the  law, 
which  seemed  to  offer  the  readiest  ladder  to  the  public  career 
of  which  he  dreamed. 

He  was  accordingly  sent  in  June,  1812,  to  the  law-office  of 
a  Mr.  Howe  of  Worthington  —  a  village  which  he  described 
as  "  consisting  of  a  blacksmith-shop  and  a  cow-stable,"  while 
"  the  only  entertainment  it  afforded  was  bound  up  in  the 
pages  of  Knickerbocker.'1''  Mr.  Howe  found  him  one  day 
reading  Wordsworth's  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  warned  him 
against  such  a  sad  waste  of  time. 

It  was  a  stirring  time  politically  ;  but  if  Bryant  cast  his 
feelings  in  the  form  of  verse,  nothing  of  it  is  preserved 
except  a  Fourth  of  July  ode  written  at  the  request  of  the 
Washington  Benevolent  Society  of  Boston  :  — 

«« Should  justice  call  to  battle, 

The  applauding  shout  we'd  raise  ; 
A  million  swords  would  leave  their  sheath, 

A  million  bayonets  blaze. 
The  stern  resolve,  the  courage  high, 

The  mind  untam'd  by  ill, 


Xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

The  fires  that  warmed  our  leader's  breast 

His  followers'  bosoms  till. 
Our  fathers  bore  the  shock  of  war ; 

Their  sons  can  bear  it  still ! 

The  same  ennobling  spirit 

That  kindles  valor's  flame, 
That  nerves  us  to  a  war  of  right, 

Forbids  a  war  of  shame ; 
For  not  in  Conquest's  impious  train 

Shall  Freedom's  children  stand ; 
Nor  shall  in  guilty  fray  be  raised 

The  high-souled  warrior's  hand. 
Nor  shall  the  patriot  draw  the  sword 

At  Gallia's  proud  command. 

No !  by  our  fathers'  ashes, 

And  by  their  sacred  cause, 
The  Gaul  shall  never  call  us  slaves, 

Shall  never  give  us  laws  ; 
Even  let  him  from  a  swarming  fleet 

Debark  his  veteran  host, 
A  living  wall  of  patriot  hearts 

Shall  fence  the  frowning  coast,  — 
A  bolder  race  than  generous  Spain, 

A  better  cause  we  boast." 

The  silence  of  his  political  muse  has  been  attributed  to  a 
more  personal  experience.  In  August,  1812,  a  distinguished 
friend  of  his  father's  brought  with  him  on  a  visit  to  Cum- 
mington,  "a  beautiful  and  accomplished  daughter,"  "with 
golden  hair,  eyes  emulating  the  gleaming  jacinth,"  "of  timid 
look  and  soft,  retiring  mien,"  .  .  .  "  moist  lip  and  airy  grace 
of  frame."  Bryant  discovered  that  "the  unbidden  flame," 
wakened  by  these  charms,  "  the  dawn  of  love  "  betrayed. 
Quite  a  pathetic  little  romance  is  read  between  the  lines  that 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xix 

he  wrote  during  the  next  few  months.     First  he  deliberates 
and  queries :  — 

"  Yes.  I  have  listened  all  too  long, 
Deluder  !  to  thy  syren  song. 
Ah,  love  !  when  first  its  musick  led 
My  cheated  steps  thy  paths  to  tread, 
I  never  dreamed  those  airs  divine, 
And  those  fair,  quiet  walks  were  thine. 

And  I  would  once  have  scoffed  in  scorn 
At  him  who  dared  pronounce  me  born 
To  bend  at  beauty's  shrine  enchained, 
And  do  the  homage  I  disdained  ; 
I  little  thought  the  hour  to  see, 
When  a  blue  eye  could  madden  me. 

I  seek  the  scenes  that  once  I  sought 
To  bring  high  dreams  and  holy  thought, 
That  gave  my  early  numbers  birth, 
The  unpeopled  majesty  of  earth  — 
One  image  still  too  loved  to  fade 
Is  with  me  in  the  lonely  shade. 

Yet,  sometimes  there  dejected  strays 
The  genius  of  my  better  days  : 
And  I  am  troubled  when  I  trace 
The  darkened  grandeur  of  his  face, 
While  thus  he  breathes  his  warnings  high, 
Betwixt  rebuke  and  prophecy. 

When  riper  years  this  dream  dispel, 
Thy  heart  shall  rue  its  folly  well ; 
And  thou  with  bitter  tears  shalt  gaze 
On  the  black  train  of  wasted  days ; 
And  curse  the  withering  spell  at  length, 
That  broke  thy  spirit's  early  strength. 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

There  were,  in  early  life  of  thee, 

Who  augured  high  and  happily  ; 

Who  loved  and  watched  the  opening  shoot, 

And  propped  the  stem  and  looked  for  fruit ; 

And  they  shall  see  its  blossoms  die, 

Withered  before  a  woman's  eye." 

He  yields,  however  ;  then  comes  separation :  — 

"The  home  thy  presence  made  so  dear, 
I  leave  —  the  parting  hour  is  past ; 
Yet  thy  sweet  image  haunts  me  here, 
In  tears,  as  when  I  saw  thee  last. 

It  meets  me  where  the  woods  are  deep, 
It  comes  when  twilight  tints  depart ; 

It  bends  above  me  while  I  sleep, 
With  pensive  looks  that  pierce  my  heart." 

A  year  later  (1814)  he  calls  her  to  return  from  her  sea- 
shore home  to  the  hills  :  — 

"  Come,  Galatea  !  hath  the  unlovely  main 
A  charm  thy  gentle  gazes  to  detain  ? 
Spring  dwells  in  beauty  here  ;  her  thousand  flowers 
The  glad  earth  here  about  the  river  pours  ; 
Here  o'er  the  grotto's  mouth  the  poplars  play  ; 
Here  the  knit  vines  exclude  the  prying  day. 
Come,  Galatea  !  bless  this  calm  retreat : 
Come,  leave  the  maniack  seas  their  bounds  to  beat !  " 

She  heard  ;  she  came  ;  she  was  complaisant :  — 

"  The  gales  of  June  were  breathing  by, 

The  twilight's  last  faint  rays  were  gleaming, 
And  midway  in  the  moonless  sky, 
The  star  of  Jove  was  brightly  beaming. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxi 

Where  by  the  stream  the  birchen  boughs 
Dark  o'er  the  level  marge  were  playing, 

The  maiden  of  my  secret  vows 
I  met  alone,  and  idly  straying. 

And  since  that  hour  —  for  then  my  love 
Consenting  heard  my  passion  pleaded  — 

Full  well  she  knows  the  star  of  Jove, 

And  loves  the  stream  with  beeches  shaded." 

Again  he  sings  of   her  in  Spenserian  stanza,  as  Horace 
says,  "  all  golden  "  :  — 

"  Dear  are  these  heights,  tho'  bleak  their  sides  they  raise, 

For  here,  as  forth  in  lonely  walk  we  fare, 
Her  cheek  to  mine  soft  Evelina  lays, 

And  breathes  those  gentle  vows  that  none  may  share. 

Mine  is  her  earliest  flame,  her  virgin  care, 
The  look  of  love  her  speaking  eye  that  fills, 

To  the  known  shade,  when  Eve's  consenting  star 
Sees  his  soft  image  in  the  trembling  rills, 
My  lovely  Oread  comes,  my  charmer  of  the  hills." 

He  has  to  call  old  Bion  to  aid  him  express  his  feelings  :  — 

"  Hail,  holy  star  of  love,  thou  fairest  gem 

Of  all  that  twinkle  in  the  veil  of  night  I 
As  the  broad  moon  to  thee,  so  thou  to  them 

Superior  in  beauty  beamest  bright. 

Lend  me,  while  she  delays,  thy  tender  light ; 
Thou  for  whom  Sol,  to  yield  his  turn  to  thine, 

Stooped  to  the.  glowing  west  his  hastened  flight ; 
On  deeds  of  quiet  I  call  thee  not  to  shine, 
Not  thefts,  but  those  of  love,  and  mutual  love  is  mine." 

But  the  star  of  Jove  must  set,  the  moon  become  veiled : 
young  love  is  crossed  :  — 


XXli  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

"  Ah,  who  would  tempt  the  hopeless  spell 

Whose  magic  binds  the  slaves  of  love  ? 

The  heart  his  power  has  touched  can  tell 

How  false  to  peace  his  flatteries  prove. 

Each  silent  sign  by  passion  taught 
To  tell  the  wish  that  thrills  the  breast ; 

The  gaze  with  speechless  meaning  fraught 
The  glowing  lip  in  secret  prest  ; 

The  stolen  hour  by  moonlight  past, 
When  hands  are  met,  and  sighs  are  deep ; 

Are  wanderings  all,  for  which  at  last 
The  heart  must  bleed,  the  eye  must  weep." 

First  comes  the  rapture,  then  comes  the  rupture  :  — 

"  I  knew  thee  fair,  I  deemed  thee  free 

From  fraud,  and  guile,  and  faithless  art ; 
Yet  had  I  seen  as  now  I  see, 

Thine  image  ne'er  had  stained  my  heart. 

Trust  not  too  far  thy  beauty's  charms  ; 

Tho'  fair  the  hand  that  wove  my  chain, 
I  will  not  stoop  with  fettered  arms 

To  do  the  homage  I  disdain. 

Yes,  Love  has  lost  his  power  to  wound. 

I  gave  the  treacherous  homicide, 
With  bow  unstrung  and  pinions  bound, 

A  captive  to  the  hands  of  Pride." 

A  collateral  or  subordinate  morbid  strain  attended  this 
effort  to  escape  from  the  bondage  of  a  love  less  "mutual" 
than  he  had  dreamed.  Three  poems,  making  a  sort  of  can- 
tata, are  the  outcome  of  it.  His  "dear  one"  is  dead  to 
him.  He  therefore  imagines  her  in  the  dark  and  silent 
tomb.  Death  even  sends  her  as  a  messenger  to  add  her 
persuasions  to  those  of  the  ghosts. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XX111 


A    CHORUS    OF    GHOSTS. 

'  Come  to  thy  couch  of  iron  rest ! 

Come  share  our  silent  bed  ! 
There's  room  within  the  graveyard's  bounds 
To  lay  thy  weary  head. 

Come,  thou  shalt  have  a  home  like  ours, 

A  low  and  narrow  cell, 
With  a  gray  stone  to  mark  the  spot ; 

For  thee  the  turf  shall  swell. 

Cold  are  its  walls  —  but  not  for  thee  — 
And  dark,  but  thou  shalt  sleep  ; 

Unfelt,  the  enclosing  clods  above 
Their  endless  guard  shall  keep. 

Yes,  o'er  thee  where  thy  lyre  was  strung 

Thine  earliest  haunts  to  hail, 
Shall  the  tall  crow-foot's  yellow  gems 

Bend  in  the  mountain  gale. 

There,  as  he  seeks  his  tardy  kine, 

When  flames  the  evening  sky, 
With  thoughtful  look  the  college  boy 

Shall  pass  thy  dwelling  by. 

Why  shudder  at  that  rest  so  still, 

That  night  of  solid  gloom  ? 
If  refuge  thou  wouldst  seek  from  woe, 

'T  is  in  the  dreamless  tomb. 

There  is  no  tie  that  binds  to  life, 

No  charm  that  wins  thy  stay  ; 
To-morrow  none  will  recollect 

That  thou  didst  live  to-day. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Come,  we  will  close  thy  glazing  eye, 

Compose  thy  dying  head  ; 
And  gently  from  its  house  of  clay 

Thy  struggling  spirit  lead." 

APPEAL    TO    DEATH. 

'  The  night  has  reached  its  solemn  noon ; 

And,  blotting  half  the  sky, 
The  clouds  before  the  westering  moon 

In  broad  black  masses  lie. 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  living  sound, 

Not  even  the  zephyr's  breath  ; 
And  I,  where  sheds  the  grove  profound 
A  night  of  deeper  horror  round, 

High  converse  hold  with  death. 

He  comes,  but  not  the  spectre  grim 

By  fabling  dreamers  planned, 
With  wickered  ribs  and  fleshless  limb, 

And  scythe  and  ebbing  sand, 
But  dim  as  through  the  polar  shade, 

When  sails  the  gathering  storm  ; 
A  shadowy  presence  vast  and  dread, 
In  terrors  wrapt,  which  ne'er  arrayed 

Distinguishable  form. 

By  all  the  dying  feel  and  fear, 

By  every  fiery  throe, 
By  all  that  tells  thy  triumphs  here, 

And  all  we  dread  below  ; 
By  those  dim  realms,  those  portals  pale 

Whose  keys  't  is  thine  to  keep, 
I  charge  thee,  tell  the  thrilling  tale, 
I  charge  thee,  draw  aside  the  veil 

That  hides  the  dear  one's  sleep." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxv 


DEATH'S  MESSENGER. 

"  It  was  my  love  ;  that  form  I  knew, 

The  same,  that  glazed  unmoving  eye  ; 
And  that  pure  cheek  of  bloodless  hue, 
As  when  she  slept  with  those  that  die. 

Why  leave  thy  quiet  cell  for  me  ? 

Have  not  my  tears  been  duly  shed  ? 
Have  I  not  taught  the  willow-tree 

To  weep  with  me  above  thy  head  ? 

And  called  the  earliest  blooms  of  May, 
The  latest  sweets  that  autumn  knows, 

To  strew  thy  grave,  and  brush  away 
From  the  cold  turf  the  winter  snows  ? 

I  deemed  that  thou  my  dreams  wouldst  bless, 
A  seraph  flusht  with  heavenly  bloom, 

And  gild  with  gleams  of  happiness 
My  few  brief  years  of  care  and  gloom. 

But  oh  !  that  eye  is  ghastly  bright, 

It  glares  with  death,  as  mine  will  soon  ; 

And  that  blanched  brow  is  cold  and  white 
As  the  pale  mist  beneath  the  moon. 

Oh,  wave  not  that  dim  hand  again  ! 

Oh,  point  not  to  thy  lowly  cell ! 
For  visions  flash  across  my  brain, 

And  thoughts  too  horrible  to  tell. 

I  may  not  follow  thee,  my  love, 
Nor  now  thy  dreamless  slumber  share. 

The  cold  clods  press  thy  limbs  above, 
And  darkness  and  the  worm  are  there. 


XXvi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Yet  a  few  hours,  and  Nature's  hand 

Itself  shall  sorrow's  balm  apply  ; 
And  I  shall  bless  the  kind  command 

That  cools  this  brow  and  seals  this  eye." 

When  a  young  man  falls  into  such  a  morbid  state  as  that 
a  change  is  desirable.  Bryant  would  have  been  glad  to  go 
to  Boston,  but  his  father  wrote  him,  "  You  have  already 
cost  me  four  hundred  dollars  at  Mr.  Howe's,  and  I  have 
other  children  equally  entitled  to  my  care." 

His  grandfather,  Dr.  Philip  Bryant,  was  still  living  at 
Bridgewater,  and  offered  him  a  home  while  he  should 
pursue  his  studies  with  the  Hon.  William  Baylies,  M.C. 
Here  Bryant  worked  diligently ;  he  wrote :  — 

"  O'er  Coke's  black-letter  page, 
Trimming  the  lamp  at  eve,  't  is  mine  to  pore, 

Well  pleased  to  see  the  venerable  sage 
Unlock  his  treasured  wealth  of  legal  lore  ; 
And  I  that  loved  to  trace  the  woods  before 

And  climb  the  hills,  a  playmate  of  the  breeze, 
Have  vowed  to  tune  the  rural  lay  no  more, 

Have  bid  my  useless  classics  sleep  at  ease, 
And  left  the  race   of  bards  to   scribble,  starve,  and 
freeze." 

He  had  not  been  a  month  in  Bridgewater  before  he  was 
called  upon  to  deliver  the  Fourth  of  July  ode  for  the  year 
1814.  He  deplored  the  folly  and  ravages  of  war,  rejoiced 
in  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  praised  England  for  her  valor  and 
persistency,  and  upbraided  the  Americans  for  not  taking  a 
hand  in  European  affairs  :  — 

"  Our  skies  have  glowed  with  burning  towns, 

Our  snows  have  blushed  with  gore  ; 
And  fresh  is  many  a  nameless  grave 
By  Erie's  weeping  shore. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxvii 

In  sadness  let  the  anthem  flow  — 

But  tell  the  men  of  strife, 
On  their  own  heads  shall  rest  the  guilt 

Of  all  this  waste  of  life. 

Well  have  ye  fought,  ye  friends  of  man, 

Well  was  your  valor  shown ; 
The  grateful  nations  breathe  from  war  — 

The  tyrant  lies  o'erthrown. 
Well  might  ye  tempt  the  dangerous  fray, 

Well  dare  the  desperate  deed :  — 
Ye  knew  how  just  your  cause  —  ye  knew 

The  voice  that  bade  ye  bleed. 

To  thee  the  mighty  plan  we  owe 

That  bade  the  world  be  free  ; 
The  thanks  of  nations,  Queen  of  Isles  I 

Are  poured  to  heaven  and  thee  ; 
Yes,  hadst  not  thou,  with  fearless  arm, 

Stayed  the  descending  scourge  ; 
These  strains,  that  chant  a  nation's  birth, 

Had  haply  hymned  its  dirge." 

These  specimens  of  verse  more  vigorous  than  poetic  show 
a  healthier  tone.  The  tonic  of  change  was  working. 

Mr.  Baylies  made  a  confidential  secretary  of  the  young 
student,  and  during  his  absence  in  Washington  intrusted 
him  with  the  care  of  his  business. 

He  did  not  entirely  scorn  pleasure.  In  a  letter  to  a 
Worthington  friend  he  wrote  how  well  contented  he  was, 
and  though  he  mourned  "such  cool,  comfortable  lounging- 
places "  as  Ward's  store,  and  Mills's  tavern,  and  Taylor's 
grog-shop,  would  not  exchange  Bridgewater  for  Worthing- 
ton "  if  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  were  thrown  into  that  side 
of  the  balance."  Occasional  balls,  excursions  with  young 
ladies,  who  even  when  they  danced  till  three  o'clock  in  the 


xxviii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

morning  were  the    next  day   "wonderfully  sociable  and 
alert,"  and  marching  with  the  militia,  offered  diversions. 

If  he  still  meditated  on  death  it  was  with  a  less  morbid 
spirit,  as  is  shown  by  a  poem  dated,  July,  1815  :  — 

"  Oh,  thou  whom  the  world  dreadeth  !    Art  thou  nigh, 

To  thy  pale  kingdom,  Death,  to  summon  me  ? 
While  life's  scarce-tasted  cup  yet  charms  my  eye, 

And  yet  my  youthful  blood  is  dancing  free 

And  fair  in  prospect  smiles  futurity. 
Go,  to  the  crazed  with  care  thy  quiet  bring  ; 

Go  to  the  galley-slave  who  pines  for  thee  ; 
Go  to  the  wretch  whom  throes  of  torture  wring, 
And  they  will  bless  thy  hand,  that  plucks  the  fiery  sting. 

I  from  thine  icy  touch  with  horror  shrink, 
That  leads  me  to  the  place  where  all  must  lie  ; 

And  bitter  is  my  misery  to  think 
That  in  the  springtime  of  my  being,  I 

Must  leave  this  pleasant  land,  and  this  fair  sky  ; 

All  this  hath  charmed  me  from  my  feeble  birth  ; 
The  friends  I  love,  and  every  gentle  tie  ; 

All  that  disposed  to  thought,  or  waked  to  mirth  ; 

And  lay  me  darkly  down,  and  mix  with  the  dull  earth." 

In  November  he  was  taken  ill  and  obliged  to  return  to 
his  home.  While  there  he  read  "Lara,"  but  judged  that 
it  could  not  be  Byron's,  because  it  showed  so  little  of  his 
energy  of  expression,  his  exuberance  of  thought,  the  peculiar 
vein  of  melancholy  which  imparts  its  tinge  to  everything  he 
writes,  in  fact,  of  all  the  stronger  features  of  his  genius. 
In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Baylies  he  asks:  "May  it  not  be  the  effort 
of  some  American  genius  ?  " 

The  following  year,  July  25,  1816,  Bryant  received  a  com- 
mission as  adjutant  in  the  Massachusetts  militia,  but  the  end 
of  the  war,  which  expired  in  a  blaze  of  glory  at  the  battle  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH-  xxix 

New  Orleans,  made  it  an  empty  honor.  Little  did  the  world 
realize  what  treasonable  sentiments  the  youth  had  been  in- 
dulging in  his  letters  to  his  father.  He  had  even  advocated 
possible  secession  !  The  following  stanzas  from  an  ode 
written  for  the  Howard  Society  of  Boston  show  that  he  was 
not  sorry  for  peace  :  — 

"  Ah,  taught  by  many  a  woe  and  fear, 

We  welcome  thy  returning  wing ; 
And  Earth,  O  Peace  !  is  glad  to  hear 

Thy  name  among  her  echoes  ring, 

And  Winter  looks  a  lovelier  Spring. 
And  hoarsely  though  his  tempest  roars, 

The  gale  that  drives  our  sleet  shall  bring 
The  world's  large  commerce  to  our  shores. 

My  country  pierced  with  many  a  wound  ! 

Thy  pulse  with  slow  recovery  beats. 
War  flies  our  shores,  but  all  around 

The  eye  his  bloody  footprint  meets, 

As  when  the  dewy  morning  greets, 
Serene  in  smiles  and  rosy  light, 

Some  prostrate  city  through  whose  streets 
The  earthquake  past  at  dead  of  night." 

In  August,  1815,  Bryant,  who  had  passed  his  examina- 
tions at  Plymouth  (the  certificate  duly  sprinkled  with  snuff 
instead  of  sand),  was  admitted  as  an  attorney  of  the  court 
of  common  pleas.  He  returned  to  Cummington,  and  there, 
with  childish  things  (for  he  was  about  to  reach  his  majority), 
he  threw  aside  forever  what  Mr.  Parke  Godwin  calls  "  his 
boyish  heroics,  those  Tyrtsean  drum-beats ;  his  amatory 
sobs  and  sighs  are  suppressed ;  his  worked  colloquies  with 
Death  are  outgrown."  He  now  begins  to  study  nature. 
Here  are  a  few  unfinished  sketches  showing  the  growth  of 
the  new  spirit :  — 


XXX  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

"The  cloudless  heavens  are  cold  and  bright, 

The  shrieking  blast  is  in  the  sky  ; 
And  all  the  long  autumnal  night 
Whirl  the  dry  leaves  in  eddies  by. 

The  sun  is  risen,  but  wan  and  chill, 
Wades  through  a  broken  cloud  ; 

And  in  the  woods  that  clothe  the  hill 
November  winds  are  loud. 

Hark  !  how  with  franti  c  wing  the  blast 

Buffets  the  forest  bare, 
Though  long  ago  its  branches  cast 

The  last  dry  leaflet  there. 

The  new-risen  sun's  mild  rays  adorn, 

The  clouds  beneath  him  rolled  ; 
And  the  first  scarlet  tints  of  morn 

Have  brightened  into  gold. 
With  many  a  note  the  wild  is  cheered  ; 

With  many  a  rustling  foot  resounds ; 
The  squirrel's  merry  chirp  is  heard ; 

From  knoll  to  knoll  the  rabbit  bounds  ; 
The  woodpecker  amidst  the  shade 

Is  heard  his  drumming  bill  to  ply; 
On  whirring  wings  along  the  glade 

Sweeps  the  brown  partridge  by. 

Now,  ere  she  bids  our  fields  adieu 
With  fragrant  fingers  June  delights, 

Profuse  with  flowers  of  sunny  hue, 

To  clothe  our  plains  and  grassy  heights, 

Through  banks  of  gold  the  stream  is  rolled. 
That  half  its  gleaming  waters  hide ; 
In  gold  the  mountain  rears  its  pride, 
In  gold  the  sloping  vales  subside, 

The  meadows  wave  in  gold. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxxi 

On  either  side  along  the  road 
Glitters  a  yellow  margin  gay, 

But  where  the  heifer  crops  her  food, 
Less  glowing  tints  the  tract  betray  ; 

And  far  around  as  eye  can  see, 

One  blossomed  waste  is  all  the  scene, 
Save  verdant  cornfields  stretched  between 
Or  groves  or  orchards  rising  green 

In  summer  majesty." 

Even  before  he  left  Bridgewater  he  had  written  "The 
Yellow  Violet." l  The  "Fragment"  now  known  as  "An 
Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood,"2  was  composed 
in  the  noble  forest  opposite  his  father's  house. 

In  December  he  determined  to  settle  in  Plainfield,  a 
hamlet  about  seven  miles  away  and  visible  from  his  own 
home.  He  went  there  on  foot,  feeling  very  forlorn  and 
desolate.  Across  the  brilliant  sunshiny  sky  flew  a  solitary 
bird.  That  night  he  wrote  "  The  Waterfowl,"  8  which  alone 
would  have  made  him  immortal. 

Plainfield  was  too  small  and  obscure  for  such  a  man. 
He  disliked  the  narrowness,  bigotry,  and  jealousy  of  the 
natives.  Yet  he  wrote  :  "I  could  have  made  a  living  out 
of  them  in  spite  of  their  teeth  had  I  chosen  to  stay."  He 
stayed  there  eight  months,  and  then  moved  to  Great  Bar- 
rington,  where  he  entered  into  practice  with  George  H. 
Ives,  Esq. 

Here  he  was  attacked  by  a  disease  of  the  lungs  which 
wasted  him  to  a  shadow.  His  father  and  sister  were 
already  doomed  by  that  same  insidious  foe  of  New  Eng- 
land. But  Bryant  conquered  it  by  systematic  exercise, 
and  great  care  of  his  diet. 

In  spite  of  his  poor  health,  he  for  some  time  devoted 
himself  to  business,  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  imperative 

i  p.  2«.  2  p.  ICQ.  »  p.  285. 


XXXli  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

calls  of  the  Muses.  His  father  wrote  him  that  Mr.  Willard 
Phillips  was  desirous  that  he  should  "  contribute  something 
to  his  new  review."  This  was  the  North  American  Keview* 
which  had  been  started  in  May,  1815. 

Dr.  Bryant  happened  to  find  "  Thanatopsis,"  "  The 
Fragment,"  and  a  few  other  poems  in  his  desk.  Without 
saying  anything  to  his  son  he  copied  them,  took  them 
to  Boston,  and  left  them  with  the  editor.  Phillips  was 
delighted  with  them  and  showed  them  to  Richard  H.  Dana. 
Dana  exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah,  Phillips  !  you  have  been  imposed  upon  ;  no  one  on 
this  side  the  Atlantic  is  capable  of  writing  such  verses." 
Phillips  replied,  — 

"  I  know  the  gentleman  who  wrote  the  best  of  them, 
at  least,  very  well ;  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine  —  Dr. 
Bryant,  at  this  moment  sitting  in  the  State  House  in  Bos- 
ton, as  Senator  from  Hampshire  County." 

Dana  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  State  House,  had  a  good 
look  at  the  supposed  poet,  and  decided  against  him.  "  It 
is  a  good  head,"  he  said  "  but  I  do  not  see  '  Thanatopsis  ' 
in  it." 

Of  course  the  truth  as  to  its  authorship  was  soon  known, 
and  Bryant  was  invited  to  contribute  regularly  to  the 
Review. 

Meantime  he  was  progressing  in  his  profession,  irksome 
as  it  was  to  him,  for  his  heart  was  not  and  could  not  be 
in  it.  He  bought  out  his  partner,  and  in  1819  was  chosen 
tithing-man,  and  town  clerk,  and  made  justice  of  the  peace. 

His  father  died  in  March,  1820,  but  this  sad  loss  was 
atoned  to  him  by  the  acquaintance,  speedily  ripening  into 
love,  of  Miss  Fanny  Fairchild,  the  orphan  daughter  of 
respectable  farming  people.  She  was  eighteen  ;  "a  very 
pretty  blonde,  small  in  person,  with  light  brown  hair,  gray 
eyes,  a  graceful  shape,  a  dainty  foot,  transparent  and  deli- 
cate hands,  and  a  wonderfully  frank  and  sweet  expression 
of  face." 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxxiii 

Bryant  celebrated  her  in  tender  ditties  —  only  one  of 
which,  "  Oh,  Fairest  of  the  Kural  Maids,"  i  Bryant  retained 
among  his  published  works. 

One  other  is  given  by  Mr.  Godwin :  — 

"  Though  summer  sun  and  freshening  shower 
Have  decked  my  love's  deserted  bower, 
Though  bees  about  the  threshold  come 
Among  the  scented  blooms  to  hum, 
Though  there  the  bind-weed  climbs  and  weaves 
Her  spotted  veil  of  flowers  and  leaves, 
Though  sweet  the  spot,  I  cannot  bear 
To  gaze  a  single  instant  there. 

Ah  !  there  no  longer  deigns  to  dwell 

The  peerless  one  I  love  so  well ; 

And  vainly  may  I  linger  near, 

The  musick  of  her  step  to  hear, 

And  catch  the  spheres  of  azure  light  — 

The  glance  my  heart  has  proved  too  bright ; 

Fair  is  the  spot  —  I  own  it  fair, 

But  cannot  look  an  instant  there  ! 

That  was  written  in  1819,  while  Miss  Fairchild  was 
visiting  in  Western  New  York.  On  her  return,  he  engaged 
himself  to  her,  and  they  were  married  June  11,  1821. 

In  a  letter  whimsically  describing  the  melancholy  cere- 
mony, which  included  the  muttering  of  certain  cabalistic 
expressions,  which  he  declared  himself  too  frightened  to 
recollect,  he  assures  his  mother  that  he  has  not  "played 
the  fool  and  married  an  Ethiop  for  the  jewel  in  her  ear." 
Be  says,  — 

"  I  looked  only  for  goodness  of  heart,  an  ingenuous  and 
affectionate  disposition,  a  good  understanding,  etc.,  and 
the  character  of  my  wife  is  too  frank  and  single-hearted 

»  p.  180. 


xxxiv  BIOGEAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

to  suffer  me  to  fear  that  I  may  be  disappointed.  I  do 
myself  a  wrong ;  I  did  not  look  for  these  nor  any  other 
qualities,  but  they  trapped  me  before  1  was  aware,  and  now 
I  am  married  in  spite  of  myself." 

His  mother  is  said  to  have  exclaimed  on  reading  that 
letter,  — 

"  He  make  a  fool  of  himself  !  He  has  never  done  so  yet, 
and  could  n't  if  he  tried  !  " 

The  spirit  with  which  he  entered  into  the  solemn  contract 
is  shown  in  a  prayer,  written  before  the  marriage,  found 
among  his  papers.  It  begins :  — 

"  May  Almighty  God  mercifully  take  care  of  our  happi- 
ness, here  and  hereafter.  May  we  ever  continue  constant  to 
each  other,  and  mindful  of  our  mutual  promises  of  attachment 
and  truth.  In  due  time,  if  it  be  the  will  of  Providence,  may 
we  become  more  nearly  connected  with  each  other,  and 
together  may  we  lead  a  long,  happy,  and  innocent  life,  with- 
out any  diminution  of  affection,  till  we  die.  May  there 
never  be  any  jealousy,  distrust,  coldness,  or  dissatisfaction 
between  us,  nor  occasion  for  any,  nothing  but  kindness,  for- 
bearance, mutual  confidence,  and  attention  to  each  other's 
happiness.  And  that  we  may  be  less  unworthy  of  so  great 
a  blessing,  may  we  be  assisted  to  cultivate  all  the  benign  and 
charitable  affections  and  offices,  not  only  toward  each  other, 
but  toward  our  neighbors,  the  human  race,  and  all  the  crea- 
tures of  God." 

It  was  Mr.  Bryant's  duty  as  town  clerk  to  publish  the 
banns  of  marriage,  but  in  his  own  case,  instead  of  reading 
them  aloud,  as  usual,  he  pinned  the  required  notice  on  the 
vestibule  door  of  the  church,  and  kept  out  of  sight.  The 
only  blot  on  the  town  records,  which  he  kept  with  remark- 
able neatness,  was  when  he  recorded  his  marriage,  and  after- 
wards, the  only  interlineation  was  when  in  entering  the 
birth  of  his  first  child,  he  accidentally  left  out  the  mother's 
name. 

A  few  months  after  his  marriage,  Bryant  was  invited  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxxv 

deliver  the  poem  for  the  *.  B.  K.  Society,  at  Cambridge. 
He  decided  to  accept  the  honor,  and  during  his  visit 
made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  all  the  literati  of 
Boston.  His  poem  was  entitled  "  The  Ages."  Bryant 
was  no  orator,  and  his  delivery  was  rather  monotonous, 
but  the  occasion  was  a  success,  considering  "the  grave 
and  elevated  tone  of  the  poem." 

His  new  friends  insisted  that  he  should  publish  his 
poems  in  a  volume,  and  shortly  after  his  return  to  Great 
Barrington,  a  pamphlet  of  forty-four  pages  appeared,  con- 
taining "The  Ages,"  "To  a  Waterfowl,"  the  "Fragment 
from  Simonides,"  the  "Inscription,"  "The  Yellow  Violet," 
"The  Song,"  "Green  River,"  and  " Thanatopsis. " 

The  October  number  of  the  North  American  Eeview 
printed  an  elaborate  criticism  of  the  poems,  in  which  it 
spoke  of  the  "strain  of  pure  and  high  sentiment  that  ran 
through  them,  not  indefinitely  and  obscurely  shadowed," 
but  animating  bright  images  and  clear  thoughts,  of  the 
"simple  and  delicate  portraiture  of  the  subtle  and  ever- 
vanishing  beauties  of  nature  which  she  seems  willing  to 
conceal  as  her  choicest  things,  and  which  none  but  minds 
the  most  susceptible  can  seize,  and  no  other  but  a  writer  of 
great  genius  can  body  forth  in  words." 

"The  whole  is  of  rich  material,  skilfully  compacted." 
Some  people  thought  this  praise  exaggerated,  but  Mr. 
Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  of  New  York,  a  redoubtable  critic, 
chimed  in  with  it,  calling  attention  in  the  American  to 
"  their  exquisite  taste,  their  keen  relish  for  the  beauties  of 
nature,  their  magnificent  imagery,  and  their  pure  and 
majestic  morality." 

The  little  volume  attracted  some  attention,  even  in 
England,  where  a  writer  in  Blackwood  prophesied  that 
Bryant  might  assume  a  high  rank  among  English  poets. 
Hartley  Coleridge  declared  that  "To  a  Waterfowl"  was 
the  best  short  poem  in  the  English  language. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  families  in  Great  Barrington 


XXX vi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

was  that  of  Judge  Sedgwick.  Not  long  after  the  death  of 
Dr.  Bryant,  Mr.  Henry  D.  Sewall,  who  was  editing  a  Uni- 
tarian Hymn  Book,  wrote  to  Miss  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick, 
urging  her  to  enlist  Bryant  as  a  contributor.  Miss  Sedg- 
wick invited  Bryant  to  call  upon  her,  and  soon  was  able  to 
report  the  success  of  her  mission.  She  described,  him  as 
a  very  interesting  man,  with  a  charming  countenance  and 
modest  but  not  bashful  manners. 

It  was  through  the  influence  of  the  Sedgwicks  he  was 
invited  to  deliver  a  Fourth  of  July  oration  at  Stockbridge. 
Theodore  Sedgwick,  Judge  Sedgwick's  second  son,  "a 
man  of  many  virtues,"  known  as  "a  politician  without 
party  vices,"  exerted  a  great  influence  upon  him,  and 
probably  was  the  first  to  incline  him  to  the  doctrine  of 
Free  Trade.  Mr.  Henry  Sedgwick,  the  eldest  of  the 
family,  was  a  prominent  lawyer  in  New  York.  Bryant, 
who  was  urged  by  his  friends  to  write  a  long  poem,  but 
did  not  believe  in  long  poems,  tried  to  write  a  farce  in- 
tended for  the  stage.  It  was  entitled  "The  Heroes,"  and 
was  meant  to  ridicule  the  practice  of  duelling.  Bryant 
showed  it  to  Charles  Sedgwick,  who  sent  it  to  his  brother 
Henry.  It  had  some  brisk  and  clever  dialogues  and 
amusing  situations,  but  Bryant  had  neither  a  comic  nor  a 
dramatic  genius,  and  the  play  was  condemned.  But  Mr. 
Henry  Sedgwick,  in  returning  the  farce  with  his  adverse 
criticisms,  urged  Bryant  to  make  New  York  his  home. 
He  held  out  certain  prospects  of  literary  work,  not  very 
great  in  themselves,  but  sufficiently  alluring  to  decide 
Bryant  to  go  on  a  prospecting  tour.  At  first,  nothing  defi- 
nite came  of  it.  He  widened  his  acquaintance  with  the 
rising  lights  of  our  literature :  met  Cooper,  Halleck,  Sands, 
Sparks,  and  others,  and  was  fascinated  with  New  York  life. 

On  his  return,  the  North  American  Review  being  closed 
to  him  on  account  of  change  in  the  editorial  control,  he 
was  invited  to  contribute  to  the  United  States  Literary 
Gazette,  a  new  Boston  periodical,  conducted  by  Theophilus 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.          xxxvii 

Parsons.  During  about  two  years'  time,  between  1823  and 
1825,  while  he  was  writing  for  the  Gazette,  he  produced 
nearly  thirty  poems  —  his  very  best  work.  It  is  interesting 
to  know  that  he  demanded  only  two  dollars  apiece  for  such 
poems  as  "  The  Massacre  of  Scio,"  "  Rizpah,"  "  Song  of  the 
Greek  Amazon,"  "The  Murdered  Traveller,"  "Hymn  to 
the  North  Star,"  "  The  Lapse  of  Time,"  "  The  Song  of  the 
Stars,"  and  "The  Forest  Hymn."  The  publishers,  how- 
ever, appreciating  his  modesty,  offered  him  $200  a  year  for 
an  average  of  one  hundred  lines  a  month,  and  expressed 
"  their  profound  regret  that  they  were  unable  to  offer  a  com- 
pensation more  adequate." 

This  was  better  than  what  he  got  from  his  first  book,  the 
profits  of  which  on  270  copies  sold  out  of  750  printed,  were 
$14.92. 

Once  a  gentleman  picked  up  a  copy  of  this  earliest  edi- 
tion. He  told  Bryant  that  he  paid  twenty  dollars  for  it. 

"  More,  by  a  long  shot,  than  I  received  for  writing  the 
whole  work,"  replied  the  poet. 

All  the  time  he  was  pursuing  the  law,  but  with  less  and  less 
satisfaction,  if  with  greater  and  greater  success.  He  argued 
cases  in  Northampton,  New  Haven,  and  even  Boston,  and 
"evinced  the  very  highest  learning,  acumen,  and  assiduity  " 
in  his  business.  A  case  which,  owing  to  a  mere  technicality, 
was  unjustly  decided  against  one  of  his  clients,  seems  to 
have  been  the  determining  cause  of  his  abandonment  of  the 
law.  Another  reason  may  be  found  in  the  death  of  his 
sister,  Sarah  Snell,  in  her  twenty-second  year.  It  was  with 
reference  to  her  that  he  wrote  the  sonnet  on  page  273,  and 
to  her  are  references  in  "The  Past"  '  and  "The  Death  of 
the  Flowers."  2 

On  Bryant's  second  visit  to  New  York,  in  February,  1825, 
—  the  journey  then  took  three  days  and  a  night, — there 
was  some  prospect,  as  he  wrote  his  wife,  of  a  literary  paper 
to  be  established  under  his  direction.  He  was  greatly  disap- 

»  p.  26.  *  p.  274. 


XXXviii          BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

pointed  in  the  failure  of  the  project,  but  in  March  he  was 
back  again,  and  associated  with  Mr.  Henry  J.  Anderson  in 
the  management  of  the  Literary  Review,  a  bantling  estab- 
lished the  year  before  by  Mr.  Robert  C.  Sands,  author  of 
"  Yam  oy  den." 

The  first  number  appeared  in  June,  and  contained  Halleck's 
"  Marco  Bozzaris,"  Dana's  "  Raven,"  and  Bryant's  "  Song 
of  Pitcairn's  Island." 

His  first  summer  in  the  big  city  was  rather  trying.  It 
was  intensely  hot :  the  brunt  of  the  editorial  drudgery  fell 
on  him.  He  was  much  alone.  The  prospects  of  the  jour- 
nal were  not  very  bright,  and  his  salary  was  only  a  thousand 
dollars  a  year.  He  boarded  on  Chambers  Street,  near  the 
Unitarian  Church,  in  the  family  of  a  Frenchman  named 
Evrard,  where  he  had  a  chance  for  practice  in  French.  His 
mood  is  shown  in  his  poem  on  "  June."  l  In  midsummer 
he  was  able  to  make  a  little  visit  to  Cummington,  and,  under 
the  inspiration  of  his  native  hills,  he  wrote  "  The  Skies  "  2 
and  "  Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country."  8 

In  the  autumn  he  brought  his  family  with  him,  and  life 
seemed  fairer.  He  spent  his  leisure  in  perfecting  his  French, 
and  Provencal,  and  in  acquiring  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Por- 
tuguese. His  principal  friends  were  Cooper,  Verplanck, 
and  Sands,  and  especially  the  refined  and  saintly  William 
Ware. 

In  the  following  April  he  delivered  four  lectures  on 
English  Poetry.  They  were  elementary  and  not  profound, 
but  clear  and  well  considered,  and  abounded  in  illustrative 
material,  showing  insight  and  thought.  Bryant  also  became 
a  professor  in  the  newly  organized  National  Academy  of  the 
Arts  of  Design,  of  which  Mr.  S.  F.  B.  Morse,  afterwards 
the  inventor  of  the  telegraph,  was  the  first  president.  Bry- 
ant gave  four  lectures  on  "  Mythology,"  and  repeated  them 
for  five  years  with  distinguished  success. 

In  March,    1826,   Bryant's  Review  and  The  New   York 

»  p.  207.  2  p.  269.  »  p.  48. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxxix 

Literary  Gazette  was  merged  into  the  New  York  Literary 
Gazette  or  American  Athenaeum.  Four  months  later  this 
high  sounding  but  feeble  venture  was  consolidated  —  if 
things  so  unsubstantial  could  be  called  consolidated  —  with 
The  United  States  Gazette  of  Boston,  under  the  title  of  The 
United  States  Review  and  Literary  Gazette. 

In  this  final  arrangement  Mr.  Bryant  received  one-quarter 
interest,  and  five  hundred  dollars  salary,  but  with  divided 
editorial  control  ;  and  in  those  dark  days  of  American 
literature  there  was  little  hope  of  success.  Again  we  may 
read  Bryant's  mood  in  "The  Journey  of  Life."1  He 
renewed  his  license  to  practise  in  New  York,  and  was  for 
some  time  associated  with  Mr.  Henry  Sedgwick,  but  did  not 
appear  in  any  of  the  courts. 

During  the  summer  of  1826,  when  his  affairs  seemed  at 
their  lowest  ebb,  he  was  asked  to  act  as  temporary  assistant 
editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  one  of  the  oldest 
journals  of  the  city,  the  profits  of  which  "  were  estimated  at 
about  thirty  thousand  dollars  a  year."  "  This  is  much  better 
than  poetry  and  magazines,"  wrote  Bryant  to  his  wife. 

Before  the  Review  came  to  grief  Bryant  contributed  to  it 
"  The  Damsel  of  Peru,"  "  The  African  Chief,"  "  Spring  in 
Town,"  "  The  Gladness  of  Nature,"  "  The  Greek  Partisan," 
"The  Two  Graves,"  and  "  The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and 
Venus,"  besides  a  number  of  insignificant  prose  pieces. 

Already,  it  may  be  remarked,  the  inspiration  which  seemed 
to  flow  through  his  earlier  verse  was  beginning  to  wane. 
Bryant's  poetry  was  like  a  well  of  natural  gas,  —  when  first 
opened  it  flows  with  the  greatest  pressure.  Most  of  his 
best  poems  were  written  before  he  was  forty. 

After  the  death  of  the  Review  he  joined  with  Verplanck 
and  Sands  in  editing  the  annual  known  as  The  Talisman, 
and  during  three  years  contributed  to  it  about  a  score  of 
poems,  some  of  which  had  already  appeared  in  the  Review, 
fcnd  about  a  dozen  pieces  in  prose.  Sands  lived  in  Hoboken, 

1  p.  272. 


xl  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

and  the  trio  of  editors  made  the  hospitable  house  their  head- 
quarters, and  had  a  holiday -time  of  it  in  arranging  plans 
for  their  pet  work.  A  few  years  later  they  published  the 
principal  contents  of  the  three  volumes  as  Miscellanies,  with 
more  popularity  and  profit. 

Bryant's  connection  with  the  Evening  Post  began  during 
Jackson's  stormy  administration  ;  and  the  President  found 
the  paper  his  strongest  supporter.  Godwin  says  "  It  caught 
a  good  deal  of  its  hero's  courage  and  energy,  and  could  be, 
in  spite  of  its  habitual  decorum,  exasperating  and  fiery." 

Bryant  had  naturally  a  quick  temper,  and,  though  he 
generally  kept  control  of  it,  he  once  met  a  political  ad- 
versary in  the  street,  and  gave  him  a  thrashing.  It  was 
the  only  time  in  fifty  years'  experience  that  he  forgot  him- 
self ;  and  he  never  ceased  to  regret  that  lapse  from  dignity. 

By  February,  1829,  he  was  allowed  a  small  interest  in  the 
Post,  and  five  months  later  was  promoted  to  be  editor-in- 
chief,  —  a  position  which  he  held  for  half  a  century.  Henry 
Sedgwick  loaned  him  two  thousand  dollars,  and  he  acquired 
half-interest  in  the  paper,  which  ultimately  brought  him  to 
wealth.  How  absorbing  his  journalistic  duties  were  may  be 
judged  from  the  fact  that  he  wrote  only  thirty  lines  in  1830, 
only  sixty  in  1831,  two  hundred  and  twenty-two  in  1832, 
none  in  1833,  and  only  an  average  of  a  hundred  lines  a  year 
in  the  first  ten  years  of  his  editorship. 

In  1831  he  brought  out  a  volume  of  his  poems.  It  was 
republished  in  London  through  the  good  offices  of  Washing- 
ton Irving.  In  1832  he  went  to  Illinois  to  visit  his  broth- 
ers, who,  on  the  death  of  their  mother,  had  emigrated  to 
the  West.  During  this  visit  he  wrote  "  The  Prairies."  1 

A  journey  beyond  the  Alleghanies  in  those  days  was  an 
event,  and  Bryant  enjoyed  it  so  much  that  henceforward  his 
chief  recreation  was  travel.  In  1834  he  went  to  Europe 
with  his  family.  He  had  applied  for  the  honorary  office  of 
bearer  of  despatches,  which  would  have  given  him  a  certain 
i  p. «. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xli 

freedom  of  entrance  and  other  facilities,  but  the  place, 
though  promised,  was  not  granted.  This  was  the  first  and 
only  time  that  he  ever  asked  for  office.  He  spent  nearly 
two  years  abroad,  and  chronicled  his  impressions  in  letters 
and  in  his  "  Sketches  of  Travel."  His  abrupt  departure 
from  the  charms  of  HeMelberg,  where  Longfellow  had  just 
joined  his  circle,  was  caused  by  news  of  the  serious  illness 
of  his  colleague,  William  Leggett,  in  whose  hands  the  Post 
had  been  left.  He  left  his  family  and  sailed  from  Havre. 
The  voyage,  by  packet,  lasted  nearly  two  months,  and  was 
so  rough  that  Bryant  was  ill  nearly  all  the  time. 

On  his  return,  in  March,  1836,  Washington  Irving, 
Halleck,  and  upwards  of  twenty  other  prominent  New 
York  authors  and  public  men,  tendered  him  a  complimen- 
tary dinner.  But  Bryant,  feeling  that  he  "  had  done 
nothing  to  merit  such  a  distinction,"  declined  it. 

In  August  the  Harpers  brought  out  a  neat  edition  of  his 
poems,  and  paid  him  six  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars 
for  an  issue  of  twenty-five  hundred  copies. 

At  this  time  he  seriously  thought  of  disposing  of  his 
newspaper  interest,  and  going  out  West  with  a  few  thou- 
sand dollars  to  try  his  fortunes.  He  was  disgusted  with 
the  mercantile  spirit  of  New  York.  He  wrote  his  brother, 
"  The  entire  thoughts  of  the  inhabitants  seem  to  be  given 
to  the  acquisition  of  wealth:  nothing  else  is  talked  of. 
The  city  is  dirtier,  and  noisier,  and  more  uncomfortable 
than  it  ever  was  before.  I  have  had  my  fill  of  a  town 
life,  and  begin  to  wish  to  pass  a  little  time  in  the  country. 
I  have  been  employed  long  enough  with  the  management  of 
a  daily  newspaper,  and  desire  leisure  for  literary  occupa- 
tions that  I  love  better." 

At  this  time  says  his  son-in-law,  who  then  made  his 
acquaintance  :  "He  was  of  middle  age  and  medium 
height,  spare  in  figure,  with  a  clean-shaven  face,  unusually 
large  head,  bright  eyes,  and  a  wearied,  severe,  almost 
saturnine  expression  of  countenance."  But  Mr.  Godwin 


xlii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

was  attracted  by  his  "exceeding  gentleness  of  manner," 
the  rare  sweetness  of  his  voice,  and  the  extraordinary  purity 
of  his  English.  He  seemed  at  first  to  have  no  fun  in  him, 
but  "Y'ien  a  lively  turn  was  given  to  some  remark,  the 
upper  part  of  his  face,  particularly  the  eyes,  gleamed  with 
a  singular  radiance,  and  a  short,  quick,  staccato,  but  hearty 
laugh  acknowledged  the  humorous  perception.  It  was 
scarcely  acknowledged,  however,  before  the  face  settled 
down  again  into  its  habitual  sternness." 

This  stern,  apparently  unsympathetic,  recluse  found  him- 
self bound  by  fate  to  his  newspaper.  Often  impelled  by 
duty  to  take  sides  with  unpopular  men  and  measures,  it 
was  not  strange  that  at  first  the  Post  sunk  to  less  than  a 
paying  property,  and  had  an  up-hill  road.  The  average 
yearly  net  earnings  of  it  prior  to  1849  were  about  ten  thou- 
sand dollars,  of  which  his  share  was  forty  per  cent.  In 
1850  it  brought  in  sixteen  thousand  dollars.  Ten  years 
later  it  was  paying  seventy  thousand  dollars.  It  was  sold 
shortly  after  Mr.  Bryant's  death  for  nine  hundred  and  sixty 
thousand  dollars. 

It  must  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  feel  that, 
owing  largely  to  his  zeal,  the  public  were  educated  up  to 
see  the  immorality  of  duelling,  the  absurdity  of  excessive 
tariffs,  the  wrong  of  banking  monopolies,  and  the  oppres- 
sion of  the  prevailing  inspection  laws ;  the  wickedness 
and  inexpediency  of  negro  slavery,  and  to  acknowledge 
the  rights  of  working-men  to  form  trade  unions,  and  mul- 
titudes of  other  "doctrines"  which  had  to  fight  for  rec- 
ognition. To  him  New  York  largely  owes  its  Central  Park, 
the  formation  of  which  he  vigorously  advocated  for  years. 

It  is  not  the  province  of  this  sketch  to  follow  Bryant's 
editorial  career,  important  though  it  was.  It  lasted  for 
more  than  half  a  century,  and  covered  a  period  of  vast 
interest.  It  was  amazing  that  Bryant  was  enabled,  with 
his  peculiar  mental  organization,  with  his  dislike  of  pub- 
licity, to  continue  in  the  fore  front  of  such  tremendous 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xliii 

conflicts,  to  preserve  always  such  unbending  dignity,  and 
to  lead  the  public  to  higher  thinking  on  so  many  weighty 
subjects,  and  at  the  same  time  to  keep  a  hold  on  the  con- 
templative life. 

This  he  was  enabled  to  do  by  the  twofold  nature  of 
man.  At  his  editorial  desk  he  was  the  politician,  partisan. 
But  he  found  a  home  and  retreat  at  Roslyn  on  Long  Island, 
—  "a  nook  such  as  a  poet  might  well  choose,  both  for 
its  shady  seclusion  and  its  beautiful  prospects,  embowered 
in  woods  that  covered  a  row  of  gentle  hills,  and  catching 
glimpses  of  a  vast  expanse  of  water  enlivened  in  the  dis- 
tance by  the  sails  of  a  metropolitan  commerce."  It  was 
an  old  Quaker  mansion,  "containing  many  spacious  rooms, 
surrounded  by  shrubberies  and  grand  trees,  and  communi- 
cating by  a  shelving  lawn  with  one  of  the  prettiest  of  small 
fresh-water  lakes." 

Here,  from  1843  till  the  end  of  his  life,  except  when  he 
was  travelling,  he  spent  two  or  three  days  of  every  week, 
"keeping  his  friendships  in  repair,"  cultivating  his  love 
for  flowers  and  gardening,  and  often  entertaining  dis- 
tinguished strangers.  In  1865  he  also  bought  the  home- 
stead and  farm  at  Cummington,  and  there  usually  spent 
several  weeks  in  the  summer. 

In  1842  Bryant  published  "  The  Fountain  and  Other 
Poems,"  containing  what  he  had  written  since  his  return 
from  Europe:  "The  Living  Lost,"  "  Caterskill  Falls," 
"The  Strange  Lady,"  "  Earth's  Children  cleave  to  Earth," 
"The  Hunter's  Vision,"  "A  Presentiment,"  "The  Child's 
Funeral,"  "The  Battlefield,"  "The  Future  Life,"  "The 
Death  of  Schiller,"  "The  Fountain,"  "The  Winds," 
"The  Old  Man's  Counsel,"  "An  Evening  Revery,"  "The 
Painted  Cup,"  "  A  Dream,"  "  The  Antiquity  of  Free- 
dom," "The  Maiden's  Sorrow,"  "The  Return  of  Youth," 
and  "  A  Hymn  of  the  Sea."  They  were  issued  by  Putnam 
&  Wiley.  The  Harper  volume  in  the  mean  time  had  gone 
through  five  editions. 


xliv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Just  before  he  bought  his  Roslyn  estate  he  travelled 
through  the  South  and  had  a  delightful  reception  every- 
where. He  spent  two  or  three  weeks  of  that  summer  of 
1843  on  the  borders  of  Lake  Champlain.  In  1845  he 
made  his  second  journey  to  Europe,  spending  two  months 
in  England  and  three  on  the  Continent.  Everywhere  he 
met  the  most  famous  men  of  the  day,  and  was  lionized  by 
them.  Particularly  did  he  enjoy  a  visit  to  Wordsworth, 
though  he  was  not  impressed  favorably  by  the  man. 

On  his  return  he  superintended  a  new  and  complete 
edition  of  his  works,  which  was  published  in  December, 
1846.  Among  the  new  poems  which  it  contained  were 
"  The  Waning  Moon,"  "  The  Stream  of  Life,"  and  "  The 
Unknown  Way,"  which  reflect  the  depression  and  anxiety 
of  those  days. 

In  May,  1847,  Bryant's  mother  died  in  Illinois.  In  a 
poem  beginning, 

"  The  May  sun  sheds  an  amber  light," 

he  refers  to  her  as  "The  gentle  and  the  good,  who  once 
cropt  the  white  blossoms  of  the  spring  with  a  fairer  hand, 
and  taught  him  to  listen  to  the  song  of  birds  in  a  voice  far 
sweeter  than  their  own." 

"  That  music  of  the  early  year 

Brings  tears  of  anguish  to  my  eyes. 
My  heart  aches  when  the  flowers  appear, 
For  then  I  think  of  her,  who  lies 
Within  her  grave, 
Low  in  her  grave." 

In  1849  Bryant  visited  Cuba,  stopping  at  Florida  on  his 
way,  and  had  hardly  reached  home,  when,  still  under  the 
impulse  of  travel,  he  started  for  Europe  for  the  third  time. 
He  was  back  in  New  York  in  December,  and,  at  the 
instance  of  G.  P.  Putnam,  soon  published  a  little  volume 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xlv 

entitled,  "  Letters  of  a  Traveller,"  containing  selections 
from  his  contributions  to  the  Post  during  his  various 
journeys. 

Two  years  later  he  made  a  still  longer  journey,  visiting 
not  only  the  Continent,  but  even  the  Nile  and  the  far  East. 
The  results  of  this  journey  are  embodied  in  his  "Letters 
from  the  East,"  published  in  1869. 

On  his  return  he  took  an  active  part  in  the  organization 
of  the  Republican  party.  He  sometimes  even  contributed 
satirical  verses  to  the  Post,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  follow- 
ing doggerel,  which  commemorates  the  failure  of  Preston 
Brooks  to  meet  Anson  Burlingame  in  Canada  for  a  duel, 
shortly  after  the  dastardly  assault  on  Charles  Sumner :  — 

BROOKS'S   CANADA   SONG. 

"  To  Canada,  Brooks  was  asked  to  go 
To  waste  of  powder  a  pound  or  so ; 
He  sighed  as  he  answered,  No,  no,  no ; 
They  might  take  my  life  on  the  way,  you  know, 
For  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid. 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid. 

Those  Jersey  railroads  I  can't  abide, 
'T  is  a  dangerous  thing  in  the  trains  to  ride. 
Each  brakeman  carries  a  knife  by  his  side  ; 
They  'd  cut  my  throat,  and  they  'd  cut  it  wide, 
And  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid. 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid. 

There  are  savages  haunting  New  York  Bay 
To  murder  strangers  that  pass  that  way  ; 
The  Quaker  Garrison  keeps  them  in  pay, 
And  they  kill,  at  least,  a  score  a  day, 
And  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid. 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid. 


xlvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Beyond  New  York  in  every  car 
They  keep  a  supply  of  feathers  and  tar  ; 
They  daub  it  on  with  an  iron  bar ; 
And  I  should  be  smothered  ere  I  got  far, 
And  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid. 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid. 

Those  dreadful  Yankees  talk  through  the  nose ; 
The  sound  is  terrible,  goodness  knows  ; 
And  when  I  hear  it  a  shiver  goes 
From  the  crown  of  my  head  to  the  tips  of  my  toes, 
For  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid. 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid. 

So,  dearest  Mr.  Burlingame, 
I  '11  stay  at  home  if  't  is  all  the  same  ; 
And  I  '11  tell  the  world  't  was  a  burning  shame 
That  we  did  not  fight,  and  you  're  to  blame. 
For  I  am  afraid,  afraid,  afraid. 
Bully  Brooks  is  afraid. 

Bryant  was  not  generally  a  humorist,  but  he  occasionally 
showed  appreciation  of  fun.  As  examples  of  his  humorous 
verse,  we  may  mention  his  address  to  the  mosquito,1  and 
quote  the  following  poetical  letter,  inviting  Dr.  Dewey  to 
visit  Roslyn  in  October,  1863,  before  the  winter  sets  in,  and 
the  days  arrived  when,  — 

"  The  season  wears  an  aspect  glum  and  glummer, 
The  icy  north  wind  an  unwelcome  comer, 
Frighting  from  garden-walks  each  pretty  hummer, 
Whose  murmuring  music  lulled  the  noons  of  summer  ; 
Roars  in  the  woods  with  grummer  voice  and  grummer, 
And  thunders  in  the  forest  like  a  drummer. 
Dumb  are  the  birds  —  they  could  not  well  be  dumber ; 
The  winter  cold,  life's  pitiless  benumber, 
i  p.  198. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xlvii 

Bursts  water-pipes,  and  makes  us  call  the  plumber. 
Now,  by  the  fireside  toils  the  patient  thumber 
Of  ancient  books,  and  no  less  patient  summer 
Of  long  accounts,  while  topers  fill  the  rummer. 
The  maiden  thinks  what  furs  will  best  become  her, 
And  on  the  stage-boards  shouts  the  gibing  mummer. 
Shut  in  by  storms,  the  dull  piano-strummer 
Murders  old  times.     There's  nothing  wearisomer ! " 

In  1857  Bryant  went  to  Europe  for  the  fifth  time,  not 
now  for  pleasure,  but  to  benefit  Mrs.  Bryant's  health.  At 
Naples  she  was  laid  up  four  months,  and  during  that  painful 
period  he  wrote  his  "  River  by  Night,"  and  "  The  Sick-bed"  ; 
also,  the  "  Day  Dream."  When  his  wife  was  recovered  he 
composed  "The  Life  That  Is."  At  Rome  he  met  many 
famous  artists,  and  had  delightful  companionship  with  Haw- 
thorne, Story,  and  the  Brownings. 

The  outbreak  of  the  civil  war  inspired  Bryant  to  the 
composition  of  two  stirring  lyrics:  "Not  Yet,"  addressed 
to  those  in  Europe  who  would  have  been  glad  to  see  the 
Republic  disrupted  and  Democracy  overthrown.  The  other 
was  entitled  "Our  Country's  Call,"  which  "helped,"  says 
Godwin,  "  to  fill  the  ranks  of  the  army,  and  to  inspire  them 
with  fortitude,  trust,  and  endurance." 

While  engaged  so  actively  with  his  pen  in  defence  of  the 
Union,  and  sending  out  trumpet-calls  of  warning  against 
"  the  greenback  craze  "  and  other  dangers,  he  found  time  to 
write  "Sella"  and  "  The  Little  People  of  the  Snow,"  which, 
says  Godwin,  "  entice  us  wholly  from  the  actual  and  the 
present  into  other  worlds,  which  the  water-nymphs  and 
snow-fays  inhabit,  and  which  dazzle  the  fancy  by  their 
strange  splendors,  and  awaken  the  emotions  to  weird  and 
unearthly  sympathies." 

Before  the  war  was  over  he  had  begun  his  masterly 
blank-verse  translation  of  Homer,  parts  of  which  he  in- 
corporated in  a  new  volume  of  poems  published  in  1863. 


xlviii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

How  he  yearned  for  peace  may  be  seen  in  his  "  Return  of 
the  Birds"  and  "Autumn  Walk,"  but  he  utterly  opposed 
it  unless  by  absolute  victory.  The  new  volume,  entitled 
"  Thirty  Poems,"  contained  "The  Rain  Dream,"  "  A  Day 
Dream,"  "The  Constellations,"  and  "The  Future  Life," 
regarded  as  among  his  best  work  ;  and  it  was  received  with 
general  favor. 

He  was  now  seventy  years  old ;  and  he  began  to  "  pay 
off,"  as  he  expressed  it,  "by  anticipation,"  various  lega- 
cies to  his  relatives  and  friends.  No  one  knows  how  far 
he  carried  this  quiet  generosity.  His  birthday  was  cele- 
brated by  a  notable  meeting  at  the  Century  Club,  when 
poems  and  addresses  were  presented  by  the  foremost  in  the 
land. 

Lowell's  fine  poem  said,  — 

"  The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey, 

The  torrents  flashed  and  trembled  in  his  song ; 

He  brought  our  native  fields  from  far  away, 
Or  set  us  mid  the  innumerable  throng 

Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard  the  calm 
Old  homestead's  evening's  psalm," 

and  showed  how  "  he  sang  of  faith  in  things  unseen,"  and 
how  "  his  voice  rammed  home  the  cannon  "  ;  how 

"  Pride,  honor,  country,  throbbed  through  all  his  strain," 
and  ended,  — 

"  And  on  our  futile  laurels  he  looks  down, 
Himself  our  bravest  crown." 

When  the  war  was  over,  and  emancipation  was  finally 
decided,  Bryant  wrote  his  "Death  of  Slavery,"  which  has 
been  called  a  national  Hymn  of  Thanksgiving. 

In  1866  Bryant  was  overwhelmed  by  the  death  of  his 
wife.  In  order  to  escape  the  desolation  of  his  home  he 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xlxix 

went  abroad,  and,  in  order  to  occupy  his  mind,  he  devoted 
his  leisure  to  completing  his  translation  of  Homer.  He 
managed  to  render  about  forty  lines  of  Greek  into  English 
each  day.  The  whole  was  completed  in  December,  1871, 
having  occupied  him  for  six  years.  The  copyrights  from 
this  up  to  1888  amounted  to  nearly  twenty  thousand  dollars. 

During  the  intervals  of  his  work  on  this  translation  he 
also  composed  a  number  of  beautiful  hymns,  and  the  pieces 
entitled  "  A  Brighter  Day,"  "  Among  the  Trees,"  and 
"  May  Evening." 

Soon  after  his  "  Homer  "  was  published,  Bryant  made  a 
journey  to  the  Bahamas,  Cuba,  and  Mexico,  everywhere 
receiving  distinguished  attentions. 

On  his  return  he  made  arrangements  to  present  the  inhab- 
itants of  Cummington  with  a  fine  library.  He  had  a  hand- 
some structure  built,  and  furnished  it  with  over  six  thousand 
books.  It  was  situated  in  a  lot  of  land  containing  eleven 
acres  —  a  noble  memorial  of  Cummington' s  famous  son. 
He  gave  a  similar  institution  to  Roslyn. 

Bryant  was  frequently  in  request  to  deliver  addresses  and 
speeches.  Thus  in  two  years,  1871  and  1872,  he  made 
more  than  a  dozen  in  behalf  of  the  Home  for  Incurables,  on 
municipal  reform,  at  the  opening  of  the  new  Princeton 
Library,  at  the  unveiling  of  the  Shakspeare  monument  in 
Central  Park,  and  elsewhere.  But  when  he  was  invited  to 
lecture  in  Boston  he  declined,  alleging  that  while  the  people 
of  New  York  were  accustomed  to  his  defects  as  a  speaker 
and  bore  with  him,  he  could  not  expect  the  same  indulgence 
from  Boston.  He  declined  also  to  write  poems  on  Bunker 
Hill,  or  for  the  celebration  of  Whittier's  birthday,  or  for 
the  alumni  of  Williams  College,  saying,  "  I  am  ever  ill  at 
occasional  verses.  Such  as  it  is,  my  vein  is  not  of  that 
sort." 

In  the  winter  of  1872-73  he  published  an  edition  of  his 
orations  and  speeches,  and  in  the  following  spring  he  made 
a  journey  to  the  South,  where  he  was  most  cordially  received. 


1  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

About  the  same  time  he  was  elected  an  honorary  member  of 
the  Russian  Academy  of  St.  Petersburg. 

His  eightieth  birthday  was  commemorated  by  the  presen- 
tation of  the  famous  silver  vase  which  was  Greek  in  form, 
typifying  Bryant's  interest  in  Greek  literature,  while  Ameri- 
can flowers  twined  themselves  about  it ;  the  other  decorations 
called  to  mind  Bryant's  most  popular  poems.  The  work 
was  not  finished  in  time,  and  was  not  presented  until  the 
June  of  the  Centennial  year.  His  birthday  was  celebrated 
all  over  the  country,  and  when  S.  J.  Tilden  was  elected 
Governor  of  New  York,  Bryant,  who  visited  him  in  Albany, 
was  tendered  a  reception  by  both  branches  of  the  Legis- 
lature, as  to  the  most  distinguished  citizen  of  the  country. 

Even  in  what  he  called  the  December  of  his  life,  he  still 
kept  up  his  interest  in  literary  matters.  He  was  an  indefa- 
tigable reader.  He  undertook  the  responsibility  for  Mr. 
Sidney  Howard  Gay's  "Popular  History  of  the  United 
States."  He  supervised  the  revision  of  his  "Library  of 
Poetry  and  Song,"  and  undertook  the  editorship  of  a  new 
edition  of  Shakspeare,  in  which  he  had  the  assistance  of 
Mr.  E.  A.  Duyckinck.  He  composed  a  hymn  for  the  Cen- 
tennial Exhibition,  wrote  "  Christmas  in  1875,"  which  has 
been  called  "  a  fine  Miltonic  inspiration  "  ;  also  the  autobio- 
graphic lines  entitled,  "A  Lifetime,"  and  was  engaged  on 
his  last  great  poem,  "The  Flood  of  Years." 

In  1878,  when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  eighty-four,  he 
still  kept  up  his  physical  and  intellectual  activity.  He 
walked  daily  to  and  from  his  office,  a  distance  of  nearly 
three  miles  ;  he  spoke  at  various  public  meetings,  and  kept 
up  a  vigorous  correspondence  with  R.  H.  Dana  and  other 
friends.  His  marvellous  memory  was  still  unimpaired.  He 
might  have  been  called  a  walking  dictionary  of  quotations. 
He  could  recall  every  line  of  his  own  poetry,  and  he  knew 
by  heart  hundreds  of  lines  of  English  and  foreign  master- 
pieces. His  last  letter  was  in  careful  criticism  of  a  poem 
submitted  to  him  by  R.  H.  Stoddard. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  li 

He  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  deliver  an  oration  at  the 
unveiling  of  the  statue  to  Mazzini,  the  Italian  patriot,  on 
May  29,  1878.  It  was  against  his  better  judgment,  but 
though  he  began  rather  more  feebly  than  usual,  not  feeling 
very  well,  he  soon  wanned  up  to  it,  and  quite  surpassed 
himself. 

At  the  close  of  the  exercises,  instead  of  going  directly  to 
his  own  home,  he  accepted  the  invitation  of  General  James 
Grant  Wilson  to  walk  over  to  his  house,  a  considerable  dis- 
tance across  the  Park.  On  entering  he  fell  backward  and 
struck  on  his  head,  causing  concussion  of  the  brain,  from 
the  effects  of  which  he  died  two  weeks  later,  on  the  morning 
of  June  12,  1878.  He  was  buried  at  Roslyn. 

Such  was  the  prosperous  and  noble  career  of  an  Ameri- 
can, who,  in  a  certain  way,  might  be  regarded  as  a  typical 
Roman  citizen.  His  unassailable  dignity  and  majestic  stern- 
ness would  have  well  befitted  a  Roman  senator.  While  it 
would  be  too  extravagant  to  claim  that  he  lived  a  faultless 
life,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  his  personal  character 
was  beyond  reproach.  If  anything,  it  seemed  almost  too 
lofty  and  unapproachable  ;  if  he  failed,  it  was  in  his  lack  of 
general  sympathies.  Yet  few  men  were  ever  more  admired, 
reverenced,  and  honored.  Nearly  every  learned  society  in 
the  world  felt  proud  to  inscribe  his  name  on  their  rolls.  He 
was  a  member  of  over  a  hundred  college  societies. 

As  a  poet  he  stands  somewhat  alone  and  isolated.  There 
is  a  certain  cold  and  classic  formality  about  the  most  of  his 
work,  which  invites  admiration  rather  than  love.  But 
this  old-fashioned  dignity  makes  his  poems  sure  of  immor- 
tality, for,  like  the  Greek  statues  of  the  gods,  they  are 
instinct  with  genuine  fervor  and  fine  feeling. 

NATHAN  HASKELL  DOLE. 


BRYANT'S    POEMS. 


THE   AGES. 


WHEN    to   the   common   rest  that   crowns  our 

days, 

Called  in  the  noon  of  life,  the  good  man  goes, 
Or  full  of  years,  and  ripe  in  wisdom,  lays 
His  silver  temples  in  their  last  repose; 
When,  o'er  the  buds  of  youth,  the  death-wind 

blows, 
And    blights    the   fairest;    when  our  bitterest 

tears 
Stream,    as    the    eyes    of   those    that    love    us 

close, 

We  think  on  what  they  were,  with  many  fears 
Lest    goodness    die    with    them,    and    leave    the 

coming  years. 

7 


8  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

II. 

And  therefore,   to   our   hearts,   the   days    gone 

by- 
When  lived  the  honored  sage  whose  death  we 

wept, 
And  the   soft   virtues   beamed    from   many   an 

eye, 

And  beat  in  many  a  heart  that  long  has  slept  — 
Like    spots    of    earth    where    angel-feet    have 

stepped  — 

Are   holy;    and  high-dreaming  bards  have  told 
Of  times  when  worth  was  crowned,  and  faith 

was  kept, 
Ere    friendship   grew   a   snare,   or   love   waxed 

cold  — 
Those  pure  and  happy  times — the   golden  days 

of  old. 

III. 

Peace  to  the  just  man's  memory, — let  it  grow 
Greener  with  years,  and  blossom  through  the 

flight 

Of  ages;  let  the  mimic  canvas  show 
His  calm  benevolent  features;  let  the  light 
Stream  on  his  deeds  of  love,  that  shunned  the 

sight 

Of  all  but  heaven,  and,  in  the  book  of  fame, 
The  glorious  record  of  his  virtues  write, 


THE  AGES.  9 

And  hold  it  up  to  men,  and  bid  them  claim 
A  palm  like  his,  and  catch  from  him  the  hallowed 
flame. 

IV. 

But  oh,  despair  not  of  their  fate  who  rise 
To  dwell  upon  the  earth  when  we  withdraw  ; 
Lo !    the   same   shaft  by  which  the   righteous 

dies, 
Strikes  through  the  wretch  that  scoffed  at  mercy's 

law, 

And  trode  his  brethren  down,  and  felt  no  awe 
Of    Him    who    will    avenge    them.       Stainless 

worth, 

Such  as  the  sternest  age  of  virtue  saw, 
Kipens,  meanwhile,  till  time  shall  call  it  forth 
From  the  low  modest  shade,  to  light  and  bless  the 

earth. 

V. 

Has  Nature,  in  her  calm,  majestic  march, 
Faltered  with  age  at  last  ?   does  the  bright  sun 
Grow   dim   in   heaven  ?    or,   in  their  far  blue 

arch, 

Sparkle  the  crowd  of  stars,  when  day  is  done, 
Less    brightly  ?    when    the   dew-lipped   Spring 

comes  on, 
Breathes  she  with  airs  less  soft,  or  scents  the 

sky 


10  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

With   flowers   less   fair  than   when    her    reign 

begun  ? 

Does  prodigal  Autumn,  to  our  age,  deny 
The   plenty  that   once  swelled  beneath  his  sober 

eye? 

VI. 
Look    on    this   beautiful   world,   and   read   the 

truth 

In  her  fair  page  ;  see,  every  season  brings 
New  change,  to  her,  of  everlasting  youth  ; 
Still  the  green  soil,  with  joyous  living  things, 
Swarms,  the  wide  air  is  full  of  joyous  wings, 
And  myriads,  still,  are  happy  in  the  sleep 
Of  ocean's  azure  gulfs,  and  where  he  flings 
The  restless  surge.     Eternal  Love  doth  keep 
In  his  complacent  arms,  the   earth,  the  air,  the 

deep. 

VII. 

Will  then  the  merciful  One,  who  stamped  our 

race 

With  his  own  image,  and  who  gave  them  sway 
O'er  earth,  and  the  glad  dwellers  on  her  face, 
Now  that  our  flourishing  nations  far  away 
Are  spread,  where'er  the  moist  earth  drinks  the 

day, 
Forget    the     ancient     care     that    taught     and 

nursed 


THE  AGES.  11 

His  latest  offspring  ?   will  he  quench  the  ray 
Infused  by  his  own  forming  smile  at  first, 
And  leave  a  work  so   fair  all   blighted  and  ac- 
cursed ? 

VIII. 

Oh,  no !   a  thousand  cheerful  omens  give 
Hope  of  yet  happier  days  whose  dawn  is  nigh. 
He  who  has  tamed  the  elements,  shall  not  live 
The  slave  of  his  own  passions ;  he  whose  eye 
Unwinds  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  in  the  abyss  of  brightness  dares  to  span 
The  sun's  broad  circle,  rising  yet  more  high, 
In    God's    magnificent    works    his    will    shall 

scan  — 
And  love  and  peace  shall  make  their  paradise  with 

man. 

IX. 

Sit  at  the  feet  of  History — through  the  night 
Of  years  the  steps  of  virtue  she  shall  trace, 
And  show  the  earlier  ages,  where  her  sight 
Can    pierce    the    eternal    shadows     o'er    their 

face;  — 

When,  from  the  genial  cradle  of  our  race, 
Went    forth   the    tribes    of    men,   their    pleas- 
ant lot 

To  choose,  where  palm-groves  cooled  their  dwell- 
ing-place, 


12  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Or  freshening  rivers  ran ;  and  there  forgot 
Th,e   truth   of  heaven,  and  kneeled  to  gods  that 
heard  them  not. 

X. 

Then  waited  not  the  murderer  for  the  night, 
But  smote  his  brother  down  in  the  bright  day, 
And  he  who  felt  the  wrong,  and  had  the  might, 
His  own  avenger,  girt  himself  to  slay ; 
Beside  the  path  the  unburied  carcass  lay ; 
The  shepherd,  by  the  fountains  of  the  glen, 
Fled,  while  the  robber  swept  his  flock  away, 
And  slew  his  babes.     The  sick,  untended  then, 
Languished  in  the  damp  shade,  and  died  afar  from 


XI. 

But  misery  brought  in  love — in  passion's  strife 
Man  gave  his  heart  to  mercy  pleading  long, 
And  sought  out  gentle  deeds  to  gladden  life ; 
The  weak,  against  the  sons  of  spoil  and  wrong, 
Banded,  and  watched  their  hamlets,  and  grew 

strong. 

States  rose,  and,  in  the  shadow  of  their  might, 
The  timid  rested.     To  the  reverent  throng, 
Grave  and  time-wrinkled  men,  with  locks  all 

white, 
Grave  laws,  and  judged  their  strifes,  and  taught  the 

way  of  right ; 


THE  AGES.  13 

XII. 

Till  bolder  spirits  seized  the  rule,  and  nailed 
On  men  the  yoke  that  man  should  never  bear, 
And    drove    them    forth  to  battle  :     Lo !     un- 
veiled 
The    scene     of    those    stern    ages!      What    is 

there  ? 

A  boundless  sea  of  blood,  and  the  wild  air 
Moans  with  the  crimson  surges  that  entomb 
Cities  and  bannered  armies ;  forms  that  wear 
The  kingly  circlet,  rise,  amid  the  gloom, 
O'er  the  dark  wave,  and  straight  are  swallowed  in 
its  womb. 

XIII. 

Those  ages  have  no  memory — but  they  left 

A  record  in  the  desert  —  columns  strown 

On    the  waste    sands,   and  statues    fall'n    and 

cleft, 

Heaped  like  a  host  in  battle  overthrown ; 
Vast  ruins,  where  the  mountain's  ribs  of  stone 
Were  hewn  into  a  city ;  streets  that  spread 
In    the    dark    earth,  where    never  breath  has 

blown 
Of  heaven's  sweet  air,  nor  foot  of  man  dares 

tread 
The  long  and  perilous  ways  —  the  Cities  of  the 

Dead; 


14 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


XIV. 

And    tombs  of    monarchs    to    the    clouds    up- 
piled — 

They    perished  —  but    the    eternal     tombs     re- 
main— 

And  the  black  precipice,  abrupt  and  wild, 
Pierced  by  long  toil  and  hollowed  to  a  fane ;  — 
Huge  piers  and  frowning  forms  of  gods  sustain 
The  everlasting  arches,  dark  and  wide, 
Like  the  night  heaven  when  clouds  are  black 

with  rain. 
But   idly   skill   was   tasked,  and   strength   was 

plied, 

All  was  the  work  of  slaves  to  swell  a  despot's 
pride. 

XV. 

And  Virtue  cannot  dwell  with  slaves,  nor  reign 
O'er  those  who  cower  to  take  a  tyrant's  yoke ; 
She  left  the  down-trod  nations  in  disdain, 
And  flew  to  Greece,  when  Liberty  awoke, 
New-born,  amid  those  beautiful  vales,  and  broke 
Sceptre  and  chain  with  her  fair  youthful  hands, 
As  the  rock  shivers  in  the  thunder-stroke. 
And    lo!    in    full-grown    strength,    an    empire 

stands 
Of  leagued  and  rival  states,  the  wonder  of  the 

lands, 


THE  AGES.  15 

XVI. 

Oh,  Greece,  thy  flourishing  cities  were  a  spoil 
Unto  each  other;  thy  hard  hand  oppressed 
And  crushed  the  helpless ;  thou  didst  make 

thy  soil 
Drunk  with  the  blood  of  those  that  loved  thee 

best; 
And    thou    didst    drive,    from    thy  unnatural 

breast, 

Thy  just  and  brave  to  die  in   distant   climes ; 
Earth  shuddered  at  thy  deeds,  and  sighed  for 

rest 

From  thine  abominations ;    after  times 
That  yet  shall  read  thy  tale,  will  tremble  at  thy 

crimes. 

XVII. 

Yet    there    was    that  within    thee   which    has 

saved 

Thy  glory,  and  redeemed  thy  blotted  name; 
The  story  of  thy  better  deeds,  engraved 
On  fame's  unmouldering  pillar,  puts  to  shame 
Our  chiller  virtue ;  the  high  art  to  tame 
The  whirlwind  of  the  passions  was  thine  own  j 
And  the  pure  ray,  that  from  thy  bosom  came, 
Far  over  many  a  land  and  age  has  shone, 
And    mingles  with    the   light    that  beams   from 

God's  own  throne. 


16  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

XVIII. 

And  Rome  —  thy  sterner,  younger  sister,  she 
Who     awed     the     world    with     her     imperial 

frown  — 
Home     drew    the     spirit    of     her     race     from 

thee,— 

The  rival  of  thy  shame  and  thy  renown. 
Yet  her  degenerate  children  sold  the  crown 
Of  earth's  wide  kingdoms  to  a  line  of  slaves ; 
Guilt  reigned,  and  woe  with  guilt,  and  plagues 

came  down, 
Till    the   north   broke    its   floodgates,   and  the 

waves 
Whelmed   the    degraded   race,    and  weltered  o'er 

their  graves. 

XIX. 

Vainly  that  ray  of  brightness  from  above, 
That  shone  around  the  Galilean  lake, 
The  light  of  hope,  the  leading  star  of  love, 
Struggled,  the  darkness  of  that  day  to  break ; 
Even    its   own    faithless    guardians    strove    to 

slake, 

In  fogs  of  earth,  the  pure  immortal  flame ; 
And  priestly  hands,  for  Jesus'  blessed  sake, 
Were  red  with  blood,  and  charity  became, 
In  that   stern  war  of    forms,   a  mockery   and  a 

name. 


THE  AGES.  17 

XX. 

They  triumphed,    and    less    bloody  rites  were 

kept 

Within  the  quiet  of  the  convent  cell ; 
The    well-fed     inmates     pattered    prayer,    and 

slept, 

And  sinned,  and  liked  their  easy  penance  well. 
Where  pleasant  was  the  spot  for  men  to  dwell, 
Amid  its  fair  broad  lands  the  abbey  lay, 
Sheltering  dark  orgies  that  were  shame  to  tell, 
And    cowled    and    barefoot     beggars    swarmed 

the  way, 
All  in  their  convent  weeds,  of  black,  and  white, 

and  gray. 

XXI. 

Oh,  sweetly  the  returning  muses'  strain 
Swelled  over  that   famed   stream,   whose    gen- 
tle tide 

In  their  bright  lap  the  Etrurian  vales  detain, 
Sweet,  as  when  winter  storms  have  ceased  to 

chide, 

And  all  the  new-leaved  woods,  resounding  wide, 
Send  out  wild  hymns  upon  the  scented  air. 
Lo !  to  the  smiling  Arno's  classic  side 
The  emulous  nations  of  the  west  repair, 
And  kindle  their  quenched  urns,  and  drink  fresh 
spirit   there. 


18  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

XXII. 

Still,  Heaven    deferred   the  hour  ordained  to 

rend 

From  saintly  rottenness  the   sacred  stole; 
And   cowl    and   worshipped    shrine   could    still 

defend 

The  wretch  with  felon  stains  upon  his  soul; 
And  crimes  were  set  to  sale,  and  hard  his  dole 
Who  could  not  bribe  a  passage  to  the  skies; 
And  vice,  beneath  the  mitre's  kind  control, 
Sinned  gayly  on,  and  grew  to  giant  size, 
Shielded    by    priestly    power,    and    watched    by 

priestly  eyes. 

XXIII. 
At  last  the  earthquake  came  —  the  shock,  that 

hurled 
To     dust,    in     many     fragments     dashed    and 

strown, 

The  throne,  whose  roots  were  in  another  world, 
And  whose  far-stretching  shadow  awed  our  own. 
From  many  a  proud  monastic  pile,  overthrown, 
Fear-struck,   the    hooded    inmates    rushed    and 

fled; 

The  web,  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  grown 
O'er  prostrate  Europe,  in  that  day  of  dread 
Crumbled    and  fell,   as  fire  dissolves  the  flaxen 

thread. 


THE  AGES.  19 

XXIV. 

The  spirit  of  that  day  is  still  awake, 

And    spreads    himself,    and    shall    not    sleep 

again; 
But    through    the    idle    mesh  of    power  shall 

break, 

Like  billows  o'er  the  Asian  monarch's  chain ; 
Till  men  are   filled  with  him,   and   feel    how 

vain, 

Instead  of  the  pure  heart  and  innocent  hands, 
Are    all    the    proud    and    pompous    modes    to 

gain 

The  smile  of  heaven; — till  a  new  age  expands 
Its  white    and    holy  wings    above  the    peaceful 

lands. 

XXV. 

For  look  again  on  the  past  years;  —  behold, 
Flown,   like   the    nightmare's    hideous    shapes, 

away, 

Full  many  a  horrible  worship,  that,  of  old, 
Held,  o'er  the  shuddering  realms,  unquestioned 

sway: 

See  crimes  that  feared  not  once  the  eye  of  day, 
Eooted  from  men,  without  a  name  or  place : 
See  nations  blotted  out  from  earth,  to  pay 
The  forfeit  of  deep  guilt; — with  glad  embrace 
The  fair  disburdened  lands  welcome  a  nobler  race. 


20  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

XXVI. 

Thus  error's  monstrous  shapes  from  earth  are 

driven, 
They  fade,  they  fly  —  but   truth  survives  their 

flight; 
Earth  has  no  shades  to   quench  that  beam   of 

heaven ; 

Each  ray,  that  shone,  in  early  time,  to  light 
The  faltering  footsteps  in  the  path  of  right, 
Each  gleam  of  clearer  brightness,  shed  to 

aid 

In  man's  maturer  day  his  bolder  sight, 
All  blended,  like  the  rainbow's  radiant  braid, 
Pour  yet,  and  still  shall  pour,  the  blaze  that  can- 
not fade. 

XXVII. 

Late,   from  this   western   shore,   that   morning 

chased 
The   deep   and  ancient   night,   that    threw    its 

shroud 
O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,   the  beautiful 

waste, 

Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter  up  of  proud 
Sky-mingling  mountains  that  o'erlook  the 

cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness 

rear, 


THE  AGES.  21 

Trees   waved,   and  the   brown  hunter's    shouts 

were  loud 

Amid  the  forest ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf 
yelled  near. 

XXVIII. 

And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  bright  blue 

bay 

Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 
And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 
Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  of  him, 
And  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 
Lifts  the  white  throng  of   sails,  that  bear   or 

bring 
The    commerce    of    the    world ;  —  with    tawny 

limb, 

And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening, 
The   savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the 

wing. 

XXIX. 

Then,  all  this  youthful  paradise  around, 

And  all  the    broad    and    boundless    mainland, 

lay 

Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mount  and  vale,  where  never  summer  ray 
Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 
Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild ; 


22  BRYANT'S  /'OEMS. 

Yet    many    a    sheltered    glade,   with  blossoms 

gay, 

Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within    the    shaggy  arms    of    that    dark   forest 
smiled. 

XXX. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet  that  flashed  with  many  an 

oar, 
Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from   the 

brake, 
And  the   deer   drank:    as   the   light   gale  flew 

o'er, 
The    twinkling    maize-field      rustled    on     the 

shore ; 
And  while  that   spot,  so  wild,   and  lone,   and 

fair, 

A  look  of  glad  and  hmocent  beauty  wore, 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive 

there : 

XXXI. 

Not  unavenged — the  foeman,  from  the  wood, 
Beheld    the     deed,    and    when     the     midnight 

shade 
Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood; 


THE  AGES.  23 

All    died — the    wailing    babe — the    shrieking 

maid  — 
And    in    the    flood   of    fire    that    scathed    the 

glade, 
The   roofs  went  down ;    but  deep  the   silence 

grew, 
When     on    the     dewy    woods     the     day-beam 

played ; 
No  more  the  cabin   smokes  rose  wreathed  and 

blue, 
And  ever,   by  their  lake,   lay  moored  the   light 

canoe. 

XXXII. 

Look  now  abroad  —  another  race  has  filled 

These  populous  borders  —  wide  the  wood  re- 
cedes, 

And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are 
tilled ; 

The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads; 

Streams     numberless,    that     many    a    fountain 


Shine,    disembowered,    and    give    to    sun    and 

breeze 

Their  virgin  waters ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies   forth,  that  toward  the  western 

seas 
Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame    among  the   autumnaJ 

trees. 


24  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

XXXIII. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 
Throws    its    last    fetters    off;    and   who    shall 

place 

A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race  ? 
Far,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite 

space, 

Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light 
Into  the  depths  of  ages  :  we  may  trace, 
Distant,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  light, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 

XXXIV. 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates, 

And    writhes    in    shackles ;     strong    the    arms 

that  chain 

To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states ; 
She    too    is   strong,   and    might    not   chafe   in 

vain 
Against     them,    but    shake    off     the    vampyre, 

train 
That    batten    on    her    blood,  and    break    their 

net. 

Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days,  and  gain 

The  meed  of  worthier  deeds  ;  the  moment  set 

To  rescue  and  raise  up,  draws  near  —  but  is  not 

yet. 


THE  AGES.  25 

XXXV. 

But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall, 
But  with  thy  children  —  thy  maternal  care, 
Thy    lavish    love,  thy   blessings    showered    on 

all  — 

These  are  thy  fetters  —  seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where. 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  that  guard  thee  well, 
Thou    laugh'st    at    enemies :     who    shall    then 

declare 

The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,   in  thy  lap,  the   sons  of  men  shall 

dwell  ? 


TO   THE   PAST. 


THOU  unrelenting  Past! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,    Manhood,    Age,    that    draws    us    to   the 
ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends  —  the  good  —  the 

kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears  — 
The  venerable  form  —  the  exalted  mind. 
26 


TO   THE  PAST.  27 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back  —  yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain  —  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back  —  nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
ire  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith,  — 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  foj*  a  space  are  they  — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ! 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 


28  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth,  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished  —  no ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat ; 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave  —  the  beautiful  and  young. 


THANATOPSIS. 


To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ;  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air,  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 


30  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall    send    his    roots     abroad,    and    pierce    thy 

mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone  — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  — The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round 

all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 


THAN  ATOP  SIS.  31 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  —  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning  —  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregan,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  —  the  dead  are  there; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest  —  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living  —  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their    mirth   and  their  employments,   and  shal5 

come, 
And  make   their  bed   with   thee.      As    the   long 

train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's    green   spring,   and  he   who 

goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray -headed  man,  — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 


32  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE   LAPSE   OF  TIME. 


LAMENT  who  will,  in  fruitless  tears, 

The  speed  with  which  our  moments  fly : 

I  sigh  not  over  vanished  years, 

But  watch  the  years  that  hasten  by. 

Look,  how  they  come,  —  a  mingled  crowd 
Of  bright  and  dark,  but  rapid  days ; 

Beneath  them,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
The  wide  world  changes  as  I  gaze. 

What !  grieve  that  time  has  brought  so  soon 
The  sober  age  of  manhood  on  ? 

As  idly  might  I  weep,  at  noon, 
To  see  the  blush  of  morning  gone. 

Could  I  give  up  the  hopes  that  glow- 
In  prospect,  like  Elysian  isles  ; 

And  let  the  charming  future  go, 
With  all  her  promises  and  smiles  ? 


34  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  future  !  —  cruel  were  the  power 

Whose  doom  would  tear  thee  from  my  heart 

Thou  sweetener  of  the  present  hour  ! 
We  cannot  —  no  —  we  will  not  part. 

Oh,  leave  me,  still,  the  rapid  flight 
That  makes  the  changing  season*  gay, 

The  grateful  speed  that  brings  the  night. 
The  swift  and  glad  return  of  day  ; 

The  months  that  touch,  with  added  graces 

This  little  prattler  at  my  knee, 
In  whose  arch  eye  and  speaking  face 

New  meaning  every  hour  I  see  ; 

The  years,  that  o'er  each  sister  land 
Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth 

And  nurse  her  strength,  till  she  shall  stand 
The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth  ; 

Till  younger  commonwealths,  for  aid, 
Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 

And  from  her  frown  shall  shrink  afraid 
The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe. 

True  —  time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  bro\r  — 
Well  —  I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 

And  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 
A  grizzly  beard  becomes  me  then. 


THE  LAPSE  OF  TIME.  35 

And  should  no  foul  dishonor  lie 

Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 
Love  yet  shall  watch  my  fading  eye, 

And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then,  haste  thee,  Time  — 'tis  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast; 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 

Thou  fliest  and  bear'st  away  our  woes, 
And  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 

The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 
A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 


TO   THE   EVENING   WIND. 


SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their   crests,   and   scattering    high 
their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone  —  a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 

Go  forth,  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 
Curl  the  still  waters,   bright  with    stars,   and 
rouse 


TO   THE  EVENING    WIND.  37 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast : 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  'twixt  the  o'ershadowing  branches   and  the 
grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his   breathing   grows  more 
deep; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go  —  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


FOREST   HYMN. 


THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man 

learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  —  ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest,  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And   from    the    gray   old    trunks    that    high    in 

heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 


FOREST  HYMN.  39 

That  our  frail   hands   have   raised?     Let  me,  at 

least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn  —  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look 

down 

Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  toward  heaven.    The  century-living  crow 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  isles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show, 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  —  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,    scarcely    felt; — the    barky    trunks,    the 

ground, 


40  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The    fresh    moist   ground,  are    all   instinct  witr. 

thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ;  —  nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes  ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  'midst  its  herbs, 
Wells  softly  forth  and  visits  the  strong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  gra^e 
Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak  — 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated  —  not  a  prince, 
In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 
Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 
With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on. 


FOREST  HYMN.  41 

In  silence,  round  me  —  the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  —  but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses  —  ever  gay  and  beautiful  youtk 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.    These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yefc  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death  —  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne  —  the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  out- 
lived 

The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ;  —  and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 


42  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     Oh,  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities  —  who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from,  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works, 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


THE   OLD   MAN'S   FUNERAL 


I  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 
A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year ;  — 

Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 
And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 
And  women's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed 
aloud. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 
In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 

"  Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 
Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 

Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 

Nor  when   the    yellow  woods    shake    down    the 
ripened  mast. 

"Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 

His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 
In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 

Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 
And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 
O'er  the  warm-colored  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain 
head. 

43 


44  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"  Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed ; 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 

Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  san  ia 
set. 

"  His  youth  was  innocent ;  his  riper  age, 
Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness,  every  day ; 

And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm,  and 

sage, 
Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 

Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 

To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

"  That  life  was  happy ;  every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his  ; 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

"  And  I  am  glad,  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 
And  glad,  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 

Nor  deem,  that  kindly  nature  did  him  wrong, 
Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 

When  his  weak  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 

Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die." 


THE   RIVULET. 


THIS  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove,  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
45 


46  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress ; 


THE  RIVULET.  47 

And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not  —  but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past  — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world  —  it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty,  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date), 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 


48  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream  ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep  —  and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to"  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


THE   PRAIRIES. 


THESE  are  the  Gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name  — 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo  !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever.  —  Motionless  ?  — 
No  —  they  are  all  unchained  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South  ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not  —  ye  have 

played 

Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific  —  have  ye  fanned 
49 


50  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  t 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work : 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their 

slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.    Fitting  floor 
For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky  — 
With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love,  — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 
Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 

Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides. 

The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 

A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 

Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they  here  — 

The  dead  of  other  days  ?  —  and  did  the  dust 

Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 

And  burn  with  passion  ?     Let  the  mighty  mounds 

That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 

In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 

Answer.     A  race,  that  long  has  passed  away, 

Built  them ;  —  a  disciplined  and  populous  race 

Heaped,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the 

Greek 
Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 


THE  PRAIRIES.     .  51 

Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 

The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 

Nourished  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were  fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 

And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 

All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their  toils, 

Till  twilight  blushed  and  lovers  walked,  and  wooed 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 

From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 

Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man  came  — 

The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 

And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the  earth. 

The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 

Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie  wolf 

Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 

Yawns  by  my  path.     The  gopher  mines  the  ground 

Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is  gone  — 

All — save   the   piles    of   earth    that    hold    their 

bones  — 
The  platforms  where  they  worshipped  unknown 

gods  — 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 
To  keep  the  foe  at  bay  —  till  o'er  the  walls 
The  wild  beleaguers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 
The   strongholds   of   the    plain  were    forced   and 


With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 
Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchres, 
And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 


52  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumphed.     Kindly  words 
Welcomed  and  soothed  him  ;  the  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs ;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seemed  to  forget,  —  yet  ne'er  forgot,  —  the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butchered  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.     The  red  man  too  — 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Eocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face  —  among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregan, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.     Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps  —  yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 


THE  PRAIRIES.  53 

Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 

They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 

And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learned  the  fear  of 

man, 

Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.     The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  mulitude 
Which  soon  shall   fill  these   deserts.     From  the 

ground 

Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.     All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


EARTH. 


A  MIDNIGHT  black  with  clouds  is  in  the  sky ; 
I  seem  to  feel,  upon  my  limb's,  the  weight 
Of  its  vast  brooding  shadow.     All  in  vain 
Turns  the  tired  eye  in  search  of  form ;  no  star 
Pierces  the  pitchy  veil ;  no  ruddy  blaze, 
From  dwellings  lighted  by  the  cheerful  hearth, 
Tinges  the  flowering  summits  of  the  grass. 
No  sound  of  life  is  heard,  no  village  hum, 
Nor  measured  tramp  of  footstep  in  the  path, 
Nor  rush  of  wing,  while,  on  the  breast  of  Earth, 
I  lie  and  listen  to  her  mighty  voice : 
A  voice  of  many  tones  —  sent  up  from  streams 
That    wander    through    the    gloom,    from    woods 

unseen, 

Swayed  by  the  sweeping  of  the  tides  of  air, 
From    rocky   chasms   where   darkness   dwells    all 

day, 

And  hollows  of  the  great  invisible  hills, 
And  sands  that  edge  the  ocean,  stretching  far 
Into  the  night  —  a  melancholy  sound ! 

Oh  Earth  !  dost  thou  too  sorrow  for  the  past 
Like  man  thy  offspring  ?     Do  I  hear  thee  mourn 
54 


EARTH.  55 

Thy  childhood's  unreturning  hours,  thy  springs 

Gone  with  their  genial  airs  and  melodies, 

The  gentle  generations  of  thy  flowers, 

And  thy  majestic  groves  of  olden  time, 

Perished  with  all  their  dwellers  ?     Dost  thou  wail 

For  that  fair  age  of  which  the  poets  tell, 

Ere  the  rude  winds  grew  keen  with  frost,  or  fire 

Fell  with  the  rains,  or  spouted  from  the  hills, 

To  blast  thy  greenness,  while  the  virgin  night 

Was  guiltless  and  salubrious  as  the  day  ? 

Or  haply  dost  thou  grieve  for  those  that  die  — 

For  living  things  that  trod  awhile  thy  face, 

The   love   of    thee   and  heaven  —  and  now  they 

sleep 
Mixed   with    the    shapeless    dust   on  which    thy 

herds 
Trample   and  graze  ?       I  too   must    grieve   with 

thee, 

O'er  loved  ones  lost  —  their  graves  are  far  away 
Upon  thy  mountains,  yet,  while  I  recline, 
Alone,  in  darkness,  on  thy  naked  soil, 
The  mighty  nourisher  and  burial-place 
Of  man,  I  feel  that  I  embrace  their  dust. 

Ha !  how  the  murmur  deepens  !     I  perceive 
And  tremble  at  its  dreadful  import.     Earth 
Uplifts  a  general  cry  for  guilt  and  wrong, 
And  Heaven  is  listening.     The  forgotten  graves 
Of  the  heart-broken  utter  forth  their  plaint. 


56  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  dust  of  her  who  loved  and  was  betrayed, 

And  him  who  died  neglected  in  his  age ; 

The  sepulchres  of  those  who  for  mankind 

Labored,  and  earned  the  recompense  of  scorn ; 

Ashes  of  martyrs  for  the  truth,  and  bones 

Of  those  who,  in  the  strife  for  liberty, 

Were  beaten  down,  their  corses  given  to  dogs, 

Their  names  to  infamy,  all  find  a  voice. 

The  nook  in  which  the  captive,  overtoiled, 

Lay  down  to  rest  at  last,  and  that  which  holds 

Childhood's    sweet    blossoms,    crushed    by    cruel 

hands, 

Send  up  a  plaintive  sound.     From  battle-fields, 
Where  heroes  madly  drave  and  dashed  their  hosts 
Against  each  other,  rises  up  a  noise, 
As  if  the  armed  multitudes  of  dead 
Stirred  in  their  heavy  slumber.     Mournful  tones 
Come  from  the  green  abysses  of  the  sea  — 
A  story  of  the  crimes  the  guilty  sought 
To    hide    beneath    its    waves.       The    glens,    the 

groves, 

Paths  in  the  thicket,  pools  of  running  brook, 
And  banks  and  depths  of  lake,  and  streets  and 

lanes 

Of  cities,  now  that  living  sounds  are  hushed, 
Murmur  of  guilty  force  and  treachery. 

Here,  where  I  rest,  the  vales  of  Italy 
Are  round  me,  populous  from  early  time, 


EARTH.  57 

And  field  of  the  tremendous  warfare  waged 
'Twixt  good  and  evil.     Who,  alas,  shall  dare 
Interpret  to  man's  ear  the  mingled  voice 
From  all   her  ways   and  walls,   and  streets   and 

streams, 
And    hills    and    fruitful  fields  ?      Old    dungeons 

breathe 

Of  horrors  veiled  from  history  ;  the  stones 
Of  mouldering  amphitheatres,  where  flowed 
The  life-blood  of  the  warrior  slave,  cry  out. 
The  fanes  of  old  religions,  the  proud  piles 
Reared  with  the  spoil  of  empires,  yea,  the  hearths 
Of  cities  dug  from  their  volcanic  graves, 
Report  of  human  suffering  and  shame 
And  folly.     Even  the  common  dust,  among 
The  springing  corn  and  vine-rows,  witnesses 
To  ages  of  oppression.     Ah,  I  hear 
A  murmur  of  confused  languages, 
The  utterance  of  nations  now  no  more, 
Driven  out  by  mightier,  as  the  days  of  heaven 
Chase  one  another  from  the  sky.     The  blood 
Of  freemen  shed  by  freemen,  till  strange  lords 
Came  in  the  hour  of  weakness,  and  made  fast 
The  yoke  that  yet  is  worn,  appeals  to  Heaven. 

What  then  shall  cleanse  thy  bosom,  gentle  Earth, 
From  all  its  painful  memories  of  guilt  ? 
The  whelming  flood,  or  the  renewing  fire, 
Or  the  slow  change  of  time  ?  that  so,  at  last, 


58  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  horrid  tale  of  perjury  and  strife, 
Murder  and  spoil,  which  men  call  history, 
May  seem  a  fable,  like  the  inventions  told 
By  poets  of  the  gods  of  Greece.     Oh  thou 
Who  sittest  far  beyond  the  Atlantic  deep, 
Among  the  sources  of  thy  glorious  streams, 
My  native  Land  of  Groves  !  a  newer  page 
In  the  great  record  of  the  world  is  thine. 
Shall  it  be  fairer  ?     Fear,  and  friendly  Hope, 
And  Envy,  watch  the  issue,  while  the  lines, 
By  which  thou  shalt  be  judged,  are  written  down. 


TO   THE   APENNINES. 


YOUR  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines ! 

In  the  soft  light  of  these  serenest  skies ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  black  with  pines, 

Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise  they  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  tint  Peruvian  slaves  behold 
In  rosy  flushes  on  the  virgin  gold. 

There,  rooted  to  the  aerial  shelves  that  wear 

The  glory  of  a  brighter  world,  might  spring 
Sweet  flowers  of  heaven  to  scent  the  unbreathed 

air, 
And  heaven's  fleet  messengers  might  rest  the 

wing, 

To  view  the  fair  earth  in  its  summer  sleep, 
Silent,  and  cradled  by  the  glimmering  deep. 

Below  you  lie  men's  sepulchres,  the  old 

Etrurian  tombs,  the  graves  of  yesterday ; 
The   herd's  white   bones   lie   mixed  with  human 

mould  — 

Yet  up  the  radiant  steeps  that  I  survey 
59 


•60  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Death  never  climbed,  nor  life's  soft  breath,  with 

pain, 
Was  yielded  to  the  elements  again. 

Ages  of  war  have  filled  these  plains  with  fear ; 

How  oft  the  hind  has  started  at  the  clash 
Of  spears,  and  yell  of  meeting  armies  here, 

Or  seen  the  lightning  of  the  battle  flash 
From    clouds,    that    rising    with    the    thunder's 

sound, 
Hung  like  an  earth-born  tempest  o'er  the  ground. 

Ah  me !  what  armed  nations  —  Asian  horde, 

And  Libyan  host  —  the  Scythian  and  the  Gaul, 
Have  swept  your  base  and  through  your  passes 

poured, 

Like  ocean-tides  uprising  at  the  call 
Of  tyrant  winds  —  against  your  rocky  side 
The    bloody    billows    dashed,    and    howled,    and 
died. 

How    crashed    the    towers    before    beleaguering 

foes, 
Sacked  cities  smoked  and  realms  were  rent  in 

twain ; 

And  commonwealths  against  their  rivals  rose, 
Trode  out  their  lives  and  earned  the  curse  of 
Cain! 


TO   THE  APENNINES.  61 

While  in  the  noiseless  air  and  light  that  flowed 
Round  your  fair  brows,  eternal  Peace  abode. 

Here  pealed  the  impious  hymn,  and  altar  flames 
Rose  to  false  gods,  a  dream-begotten  throng, 

Jove,  Bacchus,  Pan,  and  earlier,  fouler  names ; 
While,  as  the  unheeding  ages  passed  along, 

Ye,  from  your  station  in  the  middle  skies, 

Proclaimed  the    essential   Goodness,    strong    and 
wise. 

In  you  the  heart  that  sighs  for  freedom  seeks 
Her  image ;  there  the  winds  no  barrier  know, 

Clouds  come  and  rest  and  leave  your  fairy  peaks ; 
While  even  the  immaterial  Mind,  below, 

And  Thought,  her  winged  offspring,  chained  by 
power, 

Pine  silently  for  the  redeeming  hour. 


THE   KNIGHT'S   EPITAPH. 


THIS  is  the  church  which  Pisa,  great  and  free, 
Reared  to  St.  Catharine.     How  the  time-stained 

walls, 
That   earthquakes   shook   not    from    their    poise, 

appear 

To  shiver  in  the  deep  and  voluble  tones 
Rolled  from  the  organ !     Underneath  my  feet 
There  lies  the  lid  of  a  sepulchral  vault. 
The  image  of  an  armed  knight  is  graven 
Upon  it,  clad  in  perfect  panoply  — 
Cuishes,   and  greaves,   and  cuirass,   with    barred 

helm, 

Gauntleted  hand,  and  sword,  and  blazoned  shield. 
Around,  in  Gothic  characters,  worn  dim 
By  feet  of  worshippers,  are  traced  his  name, 
And  birth,  and  death,  and  words  of  eulogy. 
Why  should  I  pore  upon  them  ?     This  old  tomb, 
This  effigy,  the  strange  disused  form 
Of  this  inscription,  eloquently  show 
His  history.     Let  me  clothe  in  fitting  words 
The    thoughts     they    breathe,    and    frame     his 

epitaph. 

62 


THE  KNIGHT'S  EPITAPH.  63 

"  He  whose  forgotten  dust  for  centuries 
Has  lain  beneath  this  stone,  was  one  in  whom 
Adventure,  and  endurance,  and  emprise 
Exalted  the  mind's  faculties  and  strung 
The  body's  sinews.     Brave  he  was  in  fight, 
Courteous  in  banquet,  scornful  of  repose, 
And  bountiful,  and  cruel,  and  devout, 
And  quick  to  draw  the  sword  in  private  feud. 
He  pushed  his  quarrels  to  the  death,  yet  prayed 
The  saints  as  fervently  on  bended  knees 
As  ever  shaven  cenobite.     He  loved 
As  fiercely  as  he  fought.     He  would  have  borne 
The  maid  that   pleased  him  from  her  bower  by 

night, 

To  his  hill-castle,  as  the  eagle  bears 
His  victim  from  the  fold,  and  rolled  the  rocks 
On  his  pursuers.     He  aspired  to  see 
His  native  Pisa  queen  and  arbitress 
Of  cities  ;  earnestly  for  her  he  raised 
His  voice  in  council,  and  affronted  death 
In  battle-field,  and  climbed  the  galley's  deck, 
And  brought  the  captured  flag  of  Genoa  back, 
Or  piled  upon  the  Arno's  crowded  quay 
The  glittering  spoils  of  the  tamed  Saracen. 
He  was  not  born  to  brook  the  stranger's  yoke, 
But  would  have  joined  the  exiles,  that  withdrew 
For  ever,  when  the  Florentine  broke  in 
The  gates  of  Pisa,  and  bore  off  the  bolts 
For  trophies  -r-  but  he  died  before  that  day. 


64  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"  He  lived,  the  impersonation  of  an  ago 
That  never  shall  return.     His  soul  of  fire 
Was  kindled  by  the  breath  of  the  rude  time 
He  lived  in.     Now  a  gentler  race  succeeds, 
Shuddering  at  blood ;  the  effeminate  cavalier, 
Turning  from  the  reproaches  of  the  past, 
And  from  the  hopeless  future,  gives  to  ease, 
And  love,  and  music,  his  inglorious  life." 


SEVENTY-SIX. 


WHAT  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 

When,  through  the  fresh  awakened  land, 
The  thrilling  cry  of  freedom  rung, 
And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand  ! 

Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 

And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 
And  streams,  whose  springs  were  yet  unfound, 
Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 

Into  the  forest's  heart. 

Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain  river  swift  and  cold ; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold,  — 

As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 
And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 
Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 

To  battle  to  the  death. 
65 


3  BBYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  wife,  whose  babe  first  smiled  that  day, 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  gray, 
Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 
And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

Already  had  the  strife  begun ; 

Already  blood  on  Concord's  plain 
Along  the  springing  grass  had  run, 
And  blood  had  flowed  at  Lexington, 

Like  brooks  of  April  rain. 

That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore ; 

In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred  — 

The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the  soil  no  more. 


THE   LIVING  LOST. 


MATROX  !  the  children  of  whose  love, 

Each  to  his  grave,  in  youth  have  passed. 
And  now  the  mould  is  heaped  above 

The  dearest  and  the  last ! 
Bride  !  who  dost  wear  the  widow's  veil 
Before  the  wedding  flowers  are  pale  ! 
Ye  deem  the  human  heart  endures 
No  deeper,  bitterer  grief  than  yours. 

Yet  there  are  pangs  of  keener  woe, 

Of  which  the  sufferers  never  speak, 
Nor  to  the  world's  cold  pity  show 
The  tears  that  scald  the  cheek, 
Wrung  from  their  eyelids  by  the  shame 
And  guilt  of  those  they  shrink  to  name, 
Whom  once  they  loved,  with  cheerful  will, 
And  love,  though  fallen  and  branded,  still. 

Weep,  ye  who  sorrow  for  the  dead, 

Thus  breaking  hearts  their  pain  relieve ; 

And  graceful  are  the  tears  ye  shed, 
And  honored  ye  who  grieve. 
67 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  praise  of  those  who  sleep  in  earth, 
The  pleasant  memory  of  their  worth, 
The  hope  to  meet  when  life  is  past, 
Shall  heal  the  tortured  mind  at  last. 

But  ye,  who  for  the  living  lost 

That  agony  in  secret  bear, 
Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 

The  strength  of  your  despair  ? 
Grief  for  your  sake  is  scorn  for  them 
Whom  ye  lament  and  all  condemn ; 
And  o'er  the  world  of  spirits  lies 
A  gloom  from  which  ye  turn  your  eyes. 


THE  STRANGE   LADY. 


THE  summer  morn  is  bright  and  fresh,  the  birds 

are  darting  by, 
As  if  they  loved  to  breast  the  breeze  that  sweeps 

the  cool  clear  sky  ; 
Young  Albert,  in  the   forest's  edge,  has  heard  a 

rustling  sound, 
An  arrow  slightly  strikes  his  hand  and  falls  upon 

the  ground. 

A  lovely  woman  from  the  wood  comes  suddenly 

in  sight ; 
Her  merry  eye   is  full   and  black,  her  cheek  is 

brown  and  bright ; 
She  wears  a  tunic  of  the  blue,  her  belt  with  beads 

is  strung, 
And  yet  she  speaks  in  gentle  tones,  and  in  the 

English  tongue. 

"It  was  an  idle  bolt   I  sent,  against  the  villain 

crow ; 
Fair  sir,  I  fear  it  harmed  thy  hand ;  beshrew  my 

erring  bow ! " 


70  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"  Ah !  would  that  bolt  had  not  been  spent,  then, 

lady,  might  I  wear 
A  lasting  token  on  my  hand  of   one  so  passing 

fair!" 

"Thou  art  a  flatterer  like  the  rest,  but  wouldst 
thou  take  with  me 

A  day  of  hunting  in  the  wilds,  beneath  the  green- 
wood tree, 

I  know  where  most  the  pheasants  feed,  and  where 
the  red-deer  herd, 

And  thou  shouldst  chase  the  nobler  game,  and  I 
bring  down  the  bird." 

Now  Albert  in  her  quiver  lays  the  arrow  in  its 

place, 

And  wonders  as  he  gazes  on  the  beauty  of  her  face  •. 
"Those  hunting-grounds  are   far  away,  and,  lady, 

'twere  not  meet 
That  night,  amid  the  wilderness,  should  overtake 

thy  feet." 

"Heed  not  the  night,  a  summer  lodge  amid  the 

wild  is  mine, 
'Tis  shadowed  by  the  tulip-tree,  'tis  mantled  by 

the  vine ; 
The  wild  plum  sheds  its  yellow  fruit  from  fragrant 

thickets  nigh, 
And  flowery   prairies   from  the  door  stretch  till 

they  meet  the  sky. 


THE  STEANGE  LADY.  71 

"There   in  the  boughs   that  hide    the    roof    the 

mock-bird  sits  and  sings, 
And  there  the  hang-bird's  brood  within  its  little 

hammock  swings ; 
A   pebbly    brook,    where    rustling    winds    among 

the  hopples  sweep, 
Shall  lull  thee  till  the  morning  sun  looks  in  upon 

thy  sleep." 

Away,  into  the  forest  depths  by  pleasant  paths 

they  go, 

He  with  his  rifle  on  his  arm,  the  lady  with  her  bow, 
Where  cornels  arch  their  cool  dark  boughs  o'er 

beds  of  wintergreen, 
And  never  at  his  father's  door  again  was  Albert 

seen. 

That  night  upon  the  woods  came  down  a  furious 

hurricane, 
With  howl  of  winds   and  roar  of    streams    and 

beating  of  the  rain  ; 
The    mighty    thunder    broke    and    drowned    the 

noises  in  its  crash  ; 
The  old  trees  seemed  to  fight  like  fiends  beneath 

the  lightning  flash. 

Next  day,  within  a  mossy  glen,  'mid  mouldering 

trunks  were  found 
The    fragments    of    a    human    form,    upon    the 

bloody  ground ; 


72  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

White  bones  from  which  the  flesh  was  torn,  and 

locks  of  glossy  hair ; 
They  laid  them  in  the  place  of  graves,  yet  wist 

not  whose  they  were. 

And    whether     famished     evening    wolves    had 

mangled  Albert  so, 
Or  that  strange  dame  so  gay  and  fair  were  some 

mysterious  foe, 
Or   whether    to    that    forest    lodge,    beyond    the 

mountains  blue, 
He   went    to    dwell   with    her,   the    friends   who 

mourned  him  never  knew. 


THE   HUNTER'S   VISION. 


UPON  a  rock  that,  high,  and  sheer, 
Kose  from  the  mountain's  breast, 

A  weary  hunter  of  the  deer 
Had  sat  him  down  to  rest, 

And  bared,  to  the  soft  summer  air, 

His  hot  red  brow  and  sweaty  hair. 

All  dim  in  haze  the  mountains  lay, 
With  dimmer  vales  between  ; 

And  rivers  glimmered  on  their  way, 
By  forests,  faintly  seen ; 

"While  ever  rose  a  murmuring  sound, 

From  brooks  below  and  bees  around. 


He  listened,  till  he  seemed  to  hear 

A  strain,  so  soft  and  low, 
That  whether  in  the  mind  or  ear 

The  listener  scarce  might  know. 
With  such  a  tone,  so  sweet  and  mild, 
The  watching  mother  lulls  her  child. 


74  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"Thou  weary  huntsman,"  thus  it  said, 
"  Thou  faint  with  toil  and  heat, 

The  pleasant  land  of  rest  is  spread 
Before  thy  very  feet, 

And  those  whom  thou  wouldst  gladly  see 

Are  waiting  there  to  welcome  thee." 


He  looked,  and  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Amid  the  noontide  haze, 
A  shadowy  region  met  his  eye, 

And  grew  beneath  his  gaze, 
As  if  the  vapors  of  the  air 
Had  gathered  into  shapes  so  fair. 


Groves  freshened  as  he  looked,  and  flowers 

Showed  bright  on  rocky  bank, 
And  fountains  welled  beneath  the  bowers, 

Where  deer  and  pheasant  drank. 
He  saw  the  glittering  streams,  he  heard 
The  rustling  bough  and  twittering  bird. 

And  friends  — the  dead  —  in  boyhood  dear, 

There  lived  and  walked  again, 
And  there  was  one  who  many  a  year 

Within  her  grave  had  lain, 
A  fair  young  girl,  the  hamlet's  pride  — 
His  heart  was  breaking  when  she  died : 


THE  HUNTER'S   VISION.  75 

Bounding,  as  was  her  wont,  she  came 

Eight  toward  his  resting-place, 
And  stretched  her  hand  and  called  his  name 

With  that  sweet  smiling  face. 
Forward,  with  fixed  and  eager  eyes, 
The  hunter  leaned  in  act  to  rise  : 


Forward  he  leaned,  and  headlong  down 
Plunged  from  that  craggy  wall, 

He  saw  the  rocks,  steep,  stern,  and  brown, 
An  instant  in  his  fall ; 

A  frightful  instant  —  and  no  more, 

The  dream  and  life  at  once  were  o'er. 


CATTERSKILL   FALLS. 


MIDST  greens  and  shades  the  Catterskill  leaps, 

From  cliffs  where  the  wood-flower  clings; 
All  summer  he  moistens  his  verdant  steeps 
With   the    sweet    light  spray  of  the  mountain 

springs ; 
And    he    shakes    the    woods    on     the     mountain 

side, 
When  they  drip  with  the  rains  of  autumn  tide. 

But  when,  in  the  forest  bare  and  old, 

The  blast  of  December  calls, 
He  builds,  in  the  starlight  clear  and  cold, 

A  palace  of  ice  where  his  torrent  falls, 
With  turret,  and  arch,  and  fretwork  fair, 
And  pillars  blue  as  the  summer  air. 

For  whom  are  those  glorious  chambers  wrought, 

In  the  cold  and  cloudless  night  ? 
Is  there  neither  spirit  nor  motion  of  thought 

In  forms  so  lovely  and  hues  so  bright  ? 
Hear  what  the  gray-haired  woodmen  tell 
Of  this  wild  stream  and  its  rocky  dell. 
76 


CATTERSKILL  FALLS.  77 

'Twas  hither  a  youth  of  dreamy  mood, 

A  hundred  winters  ago, 
Had  wandered  over  the  mighty  wood, 

When  the   panther's    track  was   fresh   on  the 

snow, 

And  keen  were  the  winds  that  came  to  stir 
The  long  dark  boughs  of  the  hemlock  fir. 

Too  gentle  of  mien  he  seemed  and  fair, 
For  a  child  of  those  rugged  steeps; 

His  home  lay  low  in  the  valley  where 
The  kingly  Hudson  rolls  to  the  deeps; 

But  he  wore  the  hunter's  frock  that  day, 

And  a  slender  gun  on  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  here  he  paused,  and  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  tall  gray  linden  leant, 
When    the    broad    clear    orb    of    the    sun    had 
sunk 

From  his  path  in  the  frosty  firmament, 
And  over  the  round  dark  edge  of  the  hill 
A  cold  green  light  was  quivering  still. 

And  the  crescent  moon,  high  over  the  green, 

From  a  sky  of  crimson  shone, 
On  that  icy  palace,  whose  towers  were  seen 

To  sparkle  as  if  with  stars  of  their  own; 
While  the  water  fell,  with  a  hollow  sound, 
'Twixt  the  glistening  pillars  ranged  around 


78  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Is  that  a  being  of  life,  that  moves 
Where  the  crystal  battlements  rise  ? 

A  maiden,  watching  the  moon  she  loves, 
At  the  twilight  hour,  with  pensive  eyes  ? 

Was  that  a  garment  which  seemed  to  gleam 

Betwixt  the  eye  and  the  falling  stream  ? 


'Tis  only  the  torrent,  tumbling  o'er, 
In  the  midst  of  those  glassy  walls, 

Gushing,  and  plunging,  and  beating  the  floor 
Of  the  rocky  basin  in  which  it  falls. 

'Tis  only  the  torrent  —  but  why  that  start  ? 

Why  gazes  the  youth  with  a  throbbing  heart  ? 

He  thinks  no  more  of  his  home  afar, 

Where  his  sire  and  sister  wait. 
He  heeds  no  longer  how  star  after  star 

Looks  forth  on    the    night,  as  the  hour  grows 

late. 

He  heeds  not  the  snow-wreaths,  lifted  and  cast, 
From  a  thousand  boughs,  by  the  rising  blast. 

His  thoughts  are  alone  of  those  who  dwell 

In  the  halls  of  frost  and  snow, 
Who  pass  where  the  crystal  domes  upswell 

From  the  alabaster  floors  below, 
Where   the   frost-trees    bourgeon   with    leaf    and 

spray, 
And  frost-gems  scatter  a  silvery  day. 


CATTEE SKILL  FALLS.  79 

"  And  oh  that  those  glorious  haunts  were  mine  ! " 

He  speaks,  and  throughout  the  glen 
Thin  shadows  swim  in  the  faint  moonshine, 

And  take  a  ghastly  likeness  of  men, 
As  if  the  slain  by  the  wintry  storms 
Came  forth  to  the  air  in  their  earthly  forms. 

There  pass  the  chasers  of  seal  and  whale, 
With  their  weapons  quaint  and  grim, 

And  bands  of  warriors  in  glimmering  mail, 
And  herdsmen  and  hunters  huge  of  limb. 

There  are  naked  arms,  with  bow  and  spear, 

And  furry  gauntlets  the  carbine  rear. 

There    are    mothers  —  and    oh    how   sadly  their 
eyes 

On  their  children's  white  brows  rest ; 
There  are  youthful  lovers  —  the  maiden  lies 

In  a  seeming  sleep,  on  the  chosen  breast ; 
There  are  fair  wan  women  with  moonstruck  air, 
The  snow  stars  flecking  their  long  loose  hair. 

They  eye  him  not  as  they  pass  along, 

But  his  hair  stands  up  with  dread, 
When  he  feels  that  he  moves  with  that  phantom 
throng, 

Till  those  icy  turrets  are  over  his  head, 
And  the  torrent's  roar  as  they  enter  seems 
Like  a  drowsy  murmur  heard  in  dreams. 


80  BBYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  glittering  threshold  is  scarcely  passed, 
When  there  gathers  and  wraps  him  round 

A  thick  white  twilight,  sullen  and  vast, 
In  which  there  is  neither  form  nor  sound ; 

The  phantoms,  the  glory,  vanish  all, 

With  the  dying  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Slow  passes  the  darkness  of  that  trance, 

And  the  youth  now  faintly  sees 
Huge  shadows  and  gushes  of  light  that  dance 

On  a  rugged  ceiling  of  unhewn  trees, 
And  walls  where  the  skins  of  beasts  are  hung, 
And  rifles  glitter  on  antlers  strung. 

On  a  couch  of  shaggy  skins  he  lies ; 

As  he  strives  to  raise  his  head, 
Hard-featured  woodmen,  with  kindly  eyes, 

Come  round  him  and  smooth  Jiis  furry  bed, 
And  bid  him  rest,  for  the  evening  star 
Is  scarcely  set,  and  the  day  is  far. 

They  had  found  at  eve  the  dreaming  one 

By  the  base  of  that  icy  steep, 
When  over  his  stiffening  limbs  begun 

The  deadly  slumber  of  frost  to  creep, 
And  they  cherished  the  pale  and  breathless  form, 
Till  the  stagnant  blood  ran  free  and  warm. 


THE   HUNTER   OF   THE   PRAIRIES. 


AY  this  is  freedom  !  —  these  pure  skies 

Were  never  stained  with  village  smoke : 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke. 
Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me,  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert  —  and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass  ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game ; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 

Mine  are  the  river-ibwl  that  scream 
From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge ; 

The  bear,  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 
Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge ; 
81 


82  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay ; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 

Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 

Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  with  a  train 

Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray  ! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 

No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades ; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frostwinds  sere 

The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky  : 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 
Speaks  solemnly ;  and  I  behold 

The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 
And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 

Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew  ? 
Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 


THE  HUNTER   OF  THE  PRAIRIES.          83 

And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue 
Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams  —  my  steed  obeys, 

Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 
Wide  are  these  woods  —  I  thread  the  maze 

Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 
I  hunt,  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 

O'er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height; 
And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes, 

That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 


THE   DAMSEL   OF  PERU. 


WHERE  olive  leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind 

that  blew, 
There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel  of 

Peru. 
Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to  the 

air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her  glossy 

hair; 
Ajid  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that 

shady  nook, 
A.S  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of 

hidden  brook. 

Tis  a  song  of  love  and  valor,  in  the  noble  Spanish 

tongue, 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  old  Castile 

was  sung; 
When,  from  their  mountain  holds,  on  the  Moorish 

rout  below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept 

away  the  foe. 

84 


THE  DAMSEL   OF  PERU.  85 

Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks  forth 

anew 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and 

Peru. 

A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face 

looks  forth, 
And  bright  dark  eyes  gazs  steadfastly  and  sadly 

toward  the  north. 
Thou  look'st  in  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharpest 

sight  would  fail, 
To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life   abroad  in  all  the 

vale ; 
For  the   noon   is   coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams 

fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling 

in  the  heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair  sad  face 

is  gone, 
But  the   music   of    that   silver  voice    is    flowing 

sweetly  on, 
Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully 

and  low,  — 

A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long  ago, 
Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the 

brave, 
And  her   who   died  of    sorrow,   upon    his    early 

grave. 


86  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

But  see,  along  that  mountain's  slope,  a  fiery  horse- 
man ride ; 

Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the  sabre 
at  his  side. 

His  spurs  are  buried  rowel  deep,  he  rides  with 
loosened  rein, 

There's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank  and  foam 
upon  the  mane, 

He  speeds  him  toward  the  olive-grove,  along  that 
shaded  hill,  — 

God  shield  the  helpless  maiden  there,  if  he  should 
mean  her  ill ! 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly 

I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek  —  but 

not  of  fear. 
For  tender  accents   follow,   and  tenderer  pauses 

speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all  too 

weak : 
"  I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru  is 

free, 
And   I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive-grove 

with  thee." 


A    SONG   OF  PITCAIRN'S   ISLAND. 


COME,  take  our  boy,  and  we  will  go 

Before  our  cabin  door  ; 
The  winds  shall  bring  us,  as  they  blow, 

The  murmurs  of  the  shore ; 
And  we  will  kiss  his  young  blue  eyes, 
And  I  will  sing  him,  as  he  lies, 

Songs  that  were  made  of  yore  : 
I'll  sing,  in  his  delighted  ear, 
The  island  lays  thou  lov'st  to  hear. 

And  thou,  while  stammering  I  repeat, 

Thy  country's  tongue  shalt  teach ; 
'Tis  not  so  soft,  but  far  more  sweet, 

Than  my  own  native  speech  : 
For  thou  no  other  tongue  didst  know, 
When,  scarcely  twenty  moons  ago, 

Upon  Tahete's  beach, 
Thou  cam'st  to  woo  me  to  be  thine, 
With  many  a  speaking  look  and  sign. 

I  knew  thy  meaning  —  thou  didst  praise 
My  eyes,  my  locks  of  jet ; 

87 


88  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Ah  I  well  for  me  they  won  thy  gaze,  — 

But  thine  were  fairer  yet ! 
I'm  glad  to  see  my  infant  wear 
Thy  soft  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 

And  when  my  sight  is  met 
By  his  white  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 
I  feel  a  joy  I  cannot  speak. 

Come  talk  of  Europe's  maids  with  me, 
Whose  necks  and  cheeks,  they  tell, 
Outshine  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 

White  foam  and  crimson  shell. 
I'll  shape  like  theirs  my  simple  dress, 
And  bind  like  them  each  jetty  tress, 

A  sight  to  please  thee  well : 
And  for  my  dusky  brow  will  braid 
A  bonnet  like  an  English  maid. 

Come,  for  the  soft  low  sunlight  calls, 

We  lose  the  pleasant  hours ; 
'Tis  lovelier  than  these  cottage  walls,  — 

That  seat  among  the  flowers. 
And  I  will  learn  of  thee  a  prayer, 
To  Him,  who  gave  a  home  so  fair, 

A  lot  so  blessed  as  ours  — 
The  God  who  made,  for  thee  and  me, 
This  sweet  lone  isle  amid  the  sea. 


RIZPAH. 


And  he  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  the  Glbeonites, 
and  they  hanged  them  in  the  hill  before  the  Lord  ;  and  they 
fell  all  seven  together,  and  were  put  to  death  in  the  days  of 
the  harvest,  in  the  first  days,  in  the  beginning  of  barley - 
harvest. 

And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and 
spread  it  for  her  upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  har- 
vest until  the  water  dropped  upon  them  out  of  heaven,  and 
suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest  upon  them  by 
day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night.—  2  SAM.  xxi.  10. 


HEAR  what  the  desolate  Rizpah  said, 
As  on  Gibeah's  rocks  she  watched  the  dead. 
The  sons  of  Michal  before  her  lay, 
And  her  own  fair  children  dearer  than  they : 
By  a  death  of  shame  they  all  had  died, 
And  were   stretched  on  the  bare   rock,   side   by 

side. 

And  Kizpah,  once  the  loveliest  of  all 
That  bloomed  and  smiled  in  the  court  of  Saul, 
All  wasted  with  watching  and  famine  now, 
And  scorched  by  the  sun  her  haggard  brow, 
Sat,  mournfully  guarding  their  corpses  there, 
And  murmured  a  strange  and  solemn  air  j 


90  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  low,  heart-broken,  and  wailing  strain 
Of  a  mother  that  mourns  her  children  slain. 

"I  have  made  the  crags  my  home,  and  spread 
On  their  desert  backs  my  sackcloth  bed ; 
I  have  eaten  the  bitter  herb  of  the  rocks, 
And  drunk  the  midnight  dew  in  my  locks  ; 
I  have  wept  till  I  could  not  weep,  and  the  pain 
Of  my  burning  eyeballs  went  to  my  brain. 
Seven  blackened  corpses  before  me  lie, 
In   the   blaze  of  the   sun  and  the   winds  of  the 

sky. 

I  have  watched  them  through  the  burning  day, 
And  driven  the  vulture  and  raven  away ; 
And  the  cormorant  wheeled  in  circles  round, 
Yet  feared  to  alight  on  the  guarded  ground. 
And,  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  came, 
I  have  seen  the  hyena's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  heard  at  my  side  his  stealthy  tread, 
But  aye  at  my  shout  the  savage  fled : 
And  I  threw  the  lighted  brand,  to  fright 
The  jackal  and  wolf  that  yelled  in  the  night. 

"  Ye  were  foully  murdered,  my  hapless  sons, 
By  the  hands  of  wicked  and  cruel  ones  ; 
Ye  fell,  in  your  fresh  and  blooming  prime, 
All  innocent,  for  your  father's  crime. 
He  sinned  —  but  he  paid  the  price  of  his  guilt 
When  his  blood  by  a  nameless  hand  was  spilt  j 


RIZPAH.  91 

When  he  strove  with  the  heathen  host  in  vain, 
And  fell  with  the  flower  of  his  people  slain, 
And  the  sceptre  his  children's  hands  should  sway 
From  his  injured  lineage  passed  away. 

"But  I  hoped  that  the  cottage  roof  would  be 
A  safe  retreat  for  my  sons  and  me ; 
And  that  while  they  ripened  to  manhood  fast, 
They  should  wean  my  thoughts   from   the  woes 

of  the  past. 

And  my  bosom  swelled  with  a  mother's  pride, 
As  they  stood  in  their  beauty  and   strength   by 

my  side, 

Tall  like  their  sire,  with  the  princely  grace 
Of  his  stately  form,  and  the  bloom  of  his  face. 

"  Oh,  what  an  hour  for  a  mother's  heart, 
When  the  pitiless  ruffians  tore  us  apart ! 
When  I  clasped  their  knees  and  wept  and  prayed, 
And  struggled  and  shrieked  to  Heaven  for  aid, 
And  clung  to  my  sons  with  desperate  strength, 
Till  the  murderers  loosed  my  hold  at  length, 
And  bore  me  breathless  and  faint  aside, 
In  their  iron  arms,  while  my  children  died. 
They  died  —  and  the  mother  that  gave  them  birth 
Is  forbid  to  cover  their  bones  with  earth. 

"  The  barley-harvest  was  nodding  white, 
When  my  children  died  on  the  rocky  height, 


92  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  the  reapers  were  singing  on  hill  and  plain, 

When  I  came  to  my  task  of  sorrow  and  pain. 

But  now  the  season  of  rain  is  nigh, 

The  sun  is  dim  in  the  thickening  sky, 

And  the  clouds  in  sullen  darkness  rest 

Where  he  hides  his  light  at  the  doors  of  the  west 

I  hear  the  howl  of  the  wind  that  brings 

The  long  drear  storm  on  its  heavy  wings  ; 

But  the  howling  wind,  and  the  driving  rain 

Will  beat  on  my  houseless  head  in  vain  : 

I  shall  stay,  from  my  murdered  sons  to  scare 

The  beasts  of  the  desert,  and  fowls  of  air." 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL'S  LAMENT. 


AN  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 
Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept ; 

Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair, 
Came  down  o'er  eyes  that  wept ; 

And  Avildly,  in  her  woodland  tongue, 

This  sad  and  simple  lay  she  sung : 

"  I've  pulled  away  the  shrubs  that  grew 
Too  close  above  thy  sleeping  head, 

And  broke  the  forest  boughs  that  threw 
Their  shadows  o'er  thy  bed, 

That  shining  from  the  sweet  south-west 

The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  thy  rest. 

"  It  was  a  weary,  weary  road 
That  led  thee  to  thy  pleasant  coast, 

Where  thou,  in  his  serene  abode, 
Hast  met  thy  father's  ghost ; 

Where  everlasting  autumn  lies 

On  yellow  woods  and  sunny  skies. 


94  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"  'Twas  I  the  broidered  mocsen  made, 
That  shod  thee  for  that  distant  land ; 

'Twas  I  thy  bow  and  arrows  laid    • 
Beside  thy  still  cold  hand ; 

Thy  bow  in  many  a  battle  bent, 

Thy  arrows  never  vainly  sent. 

"  With  wampum  belts  I  crossed  thy  breast, 
And  wrapped  thee  in  the  bison's  hide, 

And  laid  the  food  that  pleased  thee  best, 
In  plenty,  by  thy  side, 

And  decked  thee  bravely,  as  became 

A  warrior  of  illustrious  name. 

"  Thou'rt  happy  now,  for  thou  hast  passed 
The  long  dark  journey  of  the  grave, 

And  in  the  land  of  light,  at  last, 
Hast  joined  the  good  and  brave ; 

Amid  the  flushed  and  balmy  air, 

The  bravest  and  the  loveliest  there. 

"Yet,  oft  to  thine  own  Indian  maid 
Even  there  thy  thoughts  will  earthward 
stray,  — 

To  her  who  sits  where  thou  wert  laid, 
And  weeps  the  hours  away, 

Yet  almost  can  her  grief  forget, 

To  think  that  thou  dost  love  her  yet. 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL'S  LAMENT.  95 

"And  thou,  by  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky, 
A  bower  for  thee  and  me  hast  made 
Beneath  the  many -colored  shade. 

"  And  thou  dost  wait  and  watch  to  meet 
My  spirit  sent  to  join  the  blessed, 

And,  wondering  what  detains  my  feet 
From  the  bright  land  of  rest, 

Dost  seem,  in  every  sound,  to  hear 

The  rustling  of  my  footsteps  near." 


THE  ARCTIC  LOVER. 


GONE  is  the  long,  long  winter  night, 

Look,  my  beloved  one  ! 
How  glorious,  through  his  depths  of  light, 

Rolls  the  majestic  sun. 
The  willows,  waked  from  winter's  death, 
Give  out  a  fragrance  like  thy  breath  — 

The  summer  is  begun  ! 

Ay,  'tis  the  long  bright  summer  day : 

Hark,  to  that  mighty  crash  ! 
The  loosened  ice-ridge  breaks  away  — 

The  smitten  waters  flash. 
Seaward  the  glittering  mountain  rides, 
While,  down  its  green  translucent  sides, 

The  foamy  torrents  dash. 

See,  love,  my  boat  is  moored  for  thee, 

By  ocean's  weedy  floor  — 
The  petrel  does  not  skim  the  sea 

More  swiftly  than  my  oar. 
We'll  go  where,  on  the  rocky  isles, 
Her  eggs  the  screaming  sea-fowl  piles 

Beside  the  pebbly  shore. 


THE  ARCTIC  LOVER.  97 

Or,  bide  thou  where  the  poppy  blows, 
With  wind-flowers  frail  and  fair, 

While  I,  upon  his  isle  of  snows, 
Seek  and  defy  the  bear. 

Fierce  though  he  be,  and  huge  of  frame, 

This  arm  his  savage  strength  shall  tame, 
And  drag  him  from  his  lair. 

When  crimson  sky  and  flamy  cloud 

Bespeak  the  summer  o'er, 
And  the  dead  valleys  wear  a  shroud 

Of  snows  that  melt  no  more, 
I'll  build  of  ice  thy  winter  home, 
With  glistening  walls  and  glassy  dome, 

And  spread  with  skins  the  floor. 

The  white  fox  by  thy  couch  shall  play ; 

And,  from  the  frozen  skies, 
The  meteors  of  a  mimic  day 

Shall  flash  upon  thine  eyes. 
And  I  —  for  such  thy  vow  —  meanwhile 
Shall  hear  thy  voice  and  see  thy  smile, 

Till  that  long  midnight  flies. 


THE   MASSACRE   AT  SCIO. 


WEEP  not  for  Scio's  children  slain ; 

Their  blood,  by  Turkish  falchions  shed, 
Sends  not  its  cry  to  Heaven  in  vain 

For  vengeance  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Though  high  the  warm  red  torrent  ran 
Between  the  flames  that  lit  the  sky, 

Yet,  for  each  drop,  an  armed  man 
Shall  rise,  to  free  the  land,  or  die. 

And  for  each  corpse,  that  in  the  sea 
Was  thrown,  to  feast  the  scaly  herds, 

A  hundred  of  the  foe  shall  be 

A  banquet  for  the  mountain  birds. 

Stern  rites  and  sad,  shall  Greece  ordain 
To  keep  that  day,  along  her  shore, 

Till  the  last  link  of  slavery's  chain 
Is  shivered,  to  be  worn  no  more. 

08 


VERSION   OF  A   FRAGMENT   OF 
SIMONIDES. 


THE  night  winds  howled  —  the  billows  dashed 

Against  the  tossing  chest ; 
And  Danae  to  her  broken  heart 

Her  slumbering  infant  pressed. 

"  My  little  child  "  —  in  tears  she  said  — 

"To  wake  and  weep  is  mine, 
But  thou  canst  sleep  —  thou  dost  not  know 

Thy  mother's  lot,  and  thine. 

"  The  moon  is  up,  the  moonbeams  smile  — 

They  tremble  on  the  main ; 
But  dark,  within  my  floating  cell, 

To  me  they  smile  in  vain. 

"  Thy  folded  mantle  wraps  thee  warm, 

Thy  clustering  locks  are  dry, 
Thou  dost  not  hear  the  shrieking  gust, 

Nor  breakers  booming  high. 
09 


100  KRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"As  o'er  thy  sweet  unconscious  face 

A  mournful  watch  I  keep, 
I  think,  didst  thou  but  know  thy  fate, 

How  thou  wouldst  also  weep. 

"Yet,  dear  one,  sleep,  and  sleep,  ye  winds 
That  vex  the  restless  brine  — 

When  shall  these  eyes,  my  babe,  be  sealed 
As  peacefully  as  thine  ?  " 


THE   GREEK   PARTISAN. 


OUR  free  flag  is  dancing 

In  the  free  mountain  air, 
And  burnished  arms  are  glancing, 

And  warriors  gathering  there ; 
And  fearless  is  the  little  train 

Whose  gallant  bosoms  shield  it ; 
The  blood  that  warms  their  hearts  shall 
stain 

That  banner,  ere  they  yield  it. 
—  Each  dark  eye  is  fixed  on  earth, 

And  brief  each  solemn  greeting ; 
There  is  no  look  or  sound  of  mirth, 

Where  those  stern  men  are  meeting. 

They  go  to  the  slaughter, 

To  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
And  pour  on  earth,  like  water, 

The  best  blood  of  the  foe ; 
To  rush  on  them  from  rock  and  height, 

And  clear  the  narrow  valley, 
Or  fire  their  camp  at  dead  of  night, 

And  fly  before  they  rally. 
101 


102  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

—  Chains  are  round  our  country  pressed, 
And  cowards  have  betrayed  her, 

And  we  must  make  her  bleeding  breast 
The  grave  of  the  invader. 

Not  till  from  her  fetters 

We  raise  up  Greece  again, 
And  write,  in  bloody  letters, 

That  tyranny  is  slain,  — 
Oh,  not  till  then  the  smile  shall  steal 

Across  those  darkened  faces, 
Nor  one  of  all  those  warriors  feel 

His  children's  dear  embraces. 

—  Eeap  we  not  the  ripened  wheat, 
Till  yonder  hosts  are  flying, 

And  all  their  bravest,  at  our  feet, 
Like  autumn  sheaves  are  lying. 


ROMERO. 


WHEN  freedom,  from  the  land  of  Spain, 

By  Spain's  degenerate  sons  was  driven, 
Who  gave  their  willing  limbs  again 

To  wear  the  chain  so  lately  riven ; 
Romero  broke  the  sword  he  wore  — 

u  Go,  faithful  brand,"  the  warrior  said, 
"  Go,  undishonored,  never  more 

The  blood  of  man  shall  make  thee  red : 

I  grieve  for  that  already  shed ; 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart  to  know, 
That  faithful  friend  and  noble  foe 
Have  only  bled  to  make  more  strong 
The  yoke  that  Spain  has  worn  so  long. 
Wear  it  who  will,  in  abject  fear  — 

I  wear  it  not  who  have  been  free ; 
The  perjured  Ferdinand  shall  hear 

No  oath  of  loyalty  from  me." 
Then,  hunted  by  the  hounds  of  power, 

Romero  chose  a  safe  retreat, 
Where  bleak  Nevada's  summits  tower 

Above  the  beauty  at  their  feet. 
103 


104  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

There  once,  when  on  his  cabin  lay 
The  crimson  light  of  setting  day, 
When  even  on  the  mountain's  breast 
The  chainless  winds  were  all  at  rest, 
And  he  could  hear  the  river's  flow 
From  the  calm  paradise  below ; 
Warmed  with  his  former  fires  again, 
He  framed  this  rude  but  solemn  strain. 


"  Here  will  I  make  my  home  —  for  here  at  least 

I  see, 

Upon  this  wild  Sierra's  side,  the  steps  of  Liberty ; 
Where  the  locust  chirps  unscared  beneath  the  un- 

pruned  lime, 
And  the  merry  bee  doth  hide  from  man  the  spoil 

of  the  mountain  thyme ; 
Where  the  pure  winds  come  and  go,  and  the  wild 

vine  strays  at  will, 
An  outcast  from  the  haunts  of  men,  she  dwells 

with  Nature  still. 


II. 

"  I  see  the  valleys,  Spain !    where  thy  mighty 

rivers  run, 

And  the  hills  that  lift  thy  harvests  and  vineyards 
to  the  sun, 


ROMERO.  105 

And  the  flocks  that  drink  thy  brooks  and  sprinkle 

all  the  green, 
Where  lie  thy  plains,  with  sheep-walks  seamed, 

and  olive  shades  between : 
I  see  thy  fig-trees  bask,  with  the  fair  pomegranate 

near, 
And  the  fragrance  of  thy  lemon-groves  can  almost 

reach  me  here. 

IIL 

"Fair  —  fair  —  but  fallen  Spain!  'tis  with  a 
swelling  heart, 

That  I  think  on  all  thou  might'st  have  been,  and 
look  at  what  thou  art ; 

But  the  strife  is  over  now  —  and  all  the  good  and 
brave, 

That  would  have  raised  thee  up,  are  gone,  to  exile 
or  the  grave. 

Thy  fleeces  are  for  monks,  thy  grapes  for  the  con- 
vent feast, 

And  the  wealth  of  all  thy  harvest-fields  for  the 
pampered  lord  and  priest. 

rv. 

"  But  I  shall  see  the  day  —  it  will  come  before  I 

die  — 

I  shall  see  it  in  my  silver  hairs,  and  witb  an  age- 
dimmed  eye ;  — 


106  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

When  the  spirit  of  the  land  to  liberty  shall  bound, 
As  yonder  fountain  leaps  away  from  the  darkness 

of  the  ground ; 

And,  to  my  mountain  cell,  the  voices  of  the  free 
Shall  rise,  as  from  the  beaten  shore  the  thunders 

of  the  sea." 


MONUMENT   MOUNTAIN. 


THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The    steep    and  toilsome   way.      There,   as  thou 

stand'st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  fhou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets 

strive 

To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 
Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 
That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
>uid  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 
107 


108  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  nortV-  a 

patn 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 
With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
A.nd  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 
With  the  thick  moss  of  centuries,  and  there 
Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 
Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 
Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge 

wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  bas-. 
Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ea; 
Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 
Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 
Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 
Is  lovely  round ;  a  beautiful  river  there 
Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 
The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills ;  beyond, 
Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN.  109 

The    mighty   columns    with    which    earth    props 
heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  gray  old  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love, 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid, 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin  door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray  old  men  that  passed 
Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear ;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 


HO  BRYANTS  POEMS. 

They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild  shades 
With  sounds  of  mirth.   The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  the  girl  will  die. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured  her  griefs.     "  Thou  know'st,  and  thou 

alone," 

She  said,  "  for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love, 
And  guilt,  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
T  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Have  an  unnatural  horror  in  mine  ear. 
In  dreams  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.     About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN.  \\\ 

The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 

The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 

To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 

And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 

To  be  his  guests.    Here  the  friends  sat  them  down, 

And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 

And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 

And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 

To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 

Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 

Below  her  —  waters  resting  in  the  embrace 

Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 

Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 

She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 

Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 

And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 

Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 

And  oame  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 

Kan  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 

From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.      There  was 

scooped, 

Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave ; 
And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death 
With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 
And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 
Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 


112  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Of   small   loose   stones.      Thenceforward,  all  who 


Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 
In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 
To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 
Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 
The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 
Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


THE   MURDERED   TRAVELLER. 


WHEN  spring,  to  woods  and  wastes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again, 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found, 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded  careless  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 
113 


114  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 

The  fear ful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset ;  — 

Nor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead ;  — 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

So  long  they  looked  —  but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


SONG   OF   THE   GREEK  AMAZON. 


I  BUCKLE  to  my  slender  side 

The  pistol  and  the  cimeter, 
And  in  my  maiden  flower  and  pride 

Am  come  to  share  the  tasks  of  war. 
And  yonder  stands  my  fiery  steed, 

That  paws  the  ground  and  neighs  to  go, 
My  charger  of  the  Arab  breed,  — 

I  took  him  from  the  routed  foe. 

My  mirror  is  the  mountain  spring, 

At  which  I  dress  my  ruffled  hair ; 
My  dimmed  and  dusty  arms  I  bring, 

And  wash  away  the  blood-stain  there. 
Why  should  I  guard,  from  wind  and  sun, 

This  cheek,  whose  virgin  rose  is  fled  ? 
It  was  for  one — oh,  only  one  — 

I  kept  its  bloom,  and  he  is  dead. 

But  they  who  slew  him  —  unaware 
Of  coward  murderers  lurking  nigh  — 

And  left  him  to  the  fowls  of  air, 
Are  yet  alive  —  and  they  must  die. 
115 


116  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

They  slew  him  —  and  my  virgin  years 
Are  vowed  to  Greece  and  vengeance  now, 

And  many  an  Othman  dame,  in  tears, 
Shall  rue  the  Grecian  maiden's  vow. 

I  touched  the  lute  in  better  days, 

I  led  in  dance  the  joyous  band; 
Ah !   they  may  move  to  mirthful  lays 

Whose  hands  can  touch  a  lover's  hand. 
The  march  of  hosts  that  haste  to  meet 

Seems  gayer  than  the  dance  to  me ; 
The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  not  so  sweet 

As  the  fierce  shout  of  victory. 


THE   AFRICAN   CHIEF. 


CHAINED  in  the  market-place  he  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude 

That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name  — 
All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb, 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground :  — 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him, 

As  on  a  lion  bound. 

Vainly,  but  well,  that  chief  had  fought, 

He  was  a  captive  now, 
Yet  pride,  that  fortune  humbles  not, 

Was  written  on  his  brow. 
The  scars  his  dark  broad  bosom  wore 

Showed  warrior  true  and  brave ; 
A  prince  among  his  tribe  before, 

He  could  not  be  a  slave. 

Then  to  his  conqueror  he  spake  — 

"  My  brother  is  a  king ; 
Undo  this  necklace  from  my  neck, 

And  take  this  bracelet  ring, 
117 


118  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  send  me  where  my  brother  reigns 

And  I  will  fill  thy  hands 
With  store  of  ivory  from  the  plains, 

And  gold-dust  from  the  sands." 

''Not  for  thy  ivory  nor  thy  gold 

Will  I  unbind  thy  chain ; 
That  bloody  hand  shall  never  hold 

The  battle-spear  again. 
A  price  thy  nation  never  gave, 

Shall  yet  be  paid  for  thee ; 
For  thou  shalt  be  the  Christian's  slave. 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea." 

Then  wept  the  warrior  chief,  and  bade 

To  shred  his  locks  away ; 
And,  one  by  one,  each  heavy  braid 

Before  the  victor  lay. 
Thick  were  the  platted  locks,  and  long, 

And  deftly  hidden  there 
Shone  many  a  wedge  of  gold  among 

The  dark  and  crisped  hair. 

"Look,  feast  thy  greedy  eye  with  gold 
Long  kept  for  sorest  need ; 

Take  it  —  thou  askest  sums  untold, 
And  say  that  I  am  freed. 

Take  it  —  my  wife,  the  long,  long  day, 
Weeps  by  the  cocoa-tree, 


THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF.  H9 

And  my  young  children  leave  their  play, 
And  ask  in  vain  for  me." 

"  I  take  thy  gold  —  but  I  have  made 

Thy  fetters  fast  and  strong, 
And  ween  that  by  the  cocoa  shade 

Thy  wife  will  wait  thee  long." 
Strong  was  the  agony  that  shook 

The  captive's  frame  to  hear, 
And  the  proud  meaning  of  his  look 

Was  changed  to  mortal  fear. 

His  heart  was  broken  —  crazed  his  brain : 

At  once  his  eye  grew  wild ; 
He  struggled  fiercely  with  his  chain, 

Whispered,  and  wept,  and  smiled; 
Yet  wore  not  long  those  fatal  bands, 

And  once,  at  shut  of  day, 
They  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sands, 

The  foul  hyena's  prey. 


SONG. 


SOON  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow 
Reflects  the  day-dawn  cold  and  clear. 

The  hunter  of  the  West  must  go, 
In  depths  of  woods  to  seek  the  deer. 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder  placed, 

His  stores  of  death  arranged  with  skill, 

His  moccasins  and  snow-shoes  laced,  — 
Why  lingers  he  beside  the  hill  ? 

Far,  in  the  dim  and  doubtful  light, 
Where  woody  slopes  a  valley  leave, 

He  sees  what  none  but  lover  might, 
The  dwelling  of  his  Genevieve. 

And  oft  he  turns  his  truant  eye, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  lingers  near ; 

But  when  he  marks  the  reddening  sky, 
He  bounds  away  to  hunt  the  deer. 


120 


AN  INDIAN   STORY. 


"  I  KNOW  where  the  timid  fawn  abides 

In  the  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  leaves  are  broad  and  the  thicket 

hides, 
With  its  many  stems  and  its  tangled  sides, 

From  the  eye  of  the  hunter  well. 

"  I  know  where  the  young  May  violet  grows, 

In  its  lone  and  lowly  nook, 
On  the  mossy  bank,  where  the  larch-tree  throws 
Its  broad  dark  boughs,  in  solemn  repose, 

Far  over  the  silent  brook. 

"  And  that  timid  fawn  starts  not  with  fear 

When  I  steal  to  her  secret  bower, 
And  that  young  May  violet  to  me  is  dear, 
And  I  visit  the  silent  streamlet  near, 

To  look  on  the  lovely  flower." 

Thus  Maquon  sings  as  he  lightly  walks 
To  the  hunting-ground  on  the  hills ; 
121 


122  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

'Tis  a  song  of  his  maid  of  the  woods  and  rocks, 
With  her  bright  black  eyes  and  long  black  locks, 
And  voice  like  the  music  of  rills. 

He  goes  to  the  chase — but  evil  eyes  " 

Are  at  watch  in  the  thicker  shades ; 
For  she  was  lovely  that  smiled  on  his  sighs, 
And  he  bore,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  his  prize, 

The  flower  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  boughs  in  the  morning  wind  are  stirred 

And  the  woods  their  song  renew, 
With  the  early  carol  of  many  a  bird, 
And  the  quickened  tune  of  the  streamlet  heard 

Where  the  hazels  trickle  with  dew. 

And  Maquon  has  promised  his  dark-haired  maid, 

Ere  eve  shall  redden  the  sky, 
A  good  red  deer  from  the  forest  shade, 
That  bound-?  with  the   herd  through  grove  and 
glade, 

At  her  cabin  door  shall  lie. 

The  hollow  woods,  in  the  setting  sun, 

King  shrill  with  the  fire-bird's  lay ; 
And  Maquon's  sylvan  labors  are  done, 
And    his    shafts    are   spent,  but  the  spoil  they 
won 

He  bears  on  his  homeward  way. 


^1^  INDIAN  STORY.  123 

He  stops  near  his  bower  —  his  eye  perceives 

Strange  traces  along  the  ground  — 
At  once,  to  the  earth  his  burden  he  heaves, 
And  breaks  through  the  veil  of  boughs  and  leaves, 

And  gains  its  door  with  a  bound. 

But  the  vines  are  torn  on  its  walls  that  leant, 

And  all  from  the  young  shrubs  there 
By  struggling  hands  have  the  leaves  been  rent, 
And  there  hangs,  on  the  sassafras  broken  and  bent, 
One  tress  of  the  well-known  hair. 

But  where  is  she  who  at  this  calm  hour, 

Ever  watched  his  coming  to  see  ? 
She  is  not  at  the  door,  nor  yet  in  the  bower, 
He  calls  —  but  he  only  hears  on  the  flower 

The  hum  of  the  laden  bee. 

It  is  not  a  time  for  idle  grief, 

Nor  a  time  for  tears  to  flow, 
The  horror  that  freezes  his  limbs  is  brief  — 
He  grasps  his  war-axe  and  bow,  and  a  sheaf 

Of  darts  made  sharp  for  the  foe. 

And  he  looks  for  the  print  of  the  ruffian's  feet, 

Where  he  bore  the  maiden  away  ; 
And  he  darts  on  the  fatal  path  more  fleet 
Than  the  blast  that  hurries  the  vapor  and  sleet 

O'er  the  wild  November  day. 


124  BBYANT'S   POEMS. 

'Twas  early  summer  when  Maquon's  bride 

Was  stolen  away  from  his  door  ; 
But  at  length  the  maples  in  crimson  are  dyed, 
And  the  grape  is  black  on  the  cabin  side, 

And  she  smiles  at  his  hearth  once  more. 

But  far  in  a  pine-grove,  dark  and  cold, 

Where  the  yellow  leaf  falls  not, 
Nor  the  autumn  shines  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
There  lies  a  hillock  of  fresh  dark  mould, 

In  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  spot. 

And  the  Indian  girls,  that  pass  that  way, 

Point  out  the  ravisher's  grave  ; 
"And  how  soon  to  the  bower  she -loved,"  they  say, 
"  Returned  the  maid  that  was  borne  away 

From  Maquon,  the  fond  and  the  brave." 


THE   HUNTER'S   SERENADE. 


THY  bower  is  finished,  fairest ! 

Fit  bower  for  hunter's  bride  — 
Where  old  woods  overshadow 

The  green  savanna's  side. 
I've  wandered  long,  and  wandered  far, 

And  never  have  I  met, 
In  all  this  lovely  western  land, 

A  spot  so  lovely  yet. 
But  I  shall  think  it  fairer, . 

When  thou  art  come  to  bless, 
With  thy  sweet  smile  and  silver  voice, 

Its  silent  loveliness. 

For  thee  the  wild  grape  glistens, 

On  sunny  knoll  and  tree, 
And  stoops  the  slim  papaya 

With  yellow  fruit  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  duck,  on  glassy  stream, 

The  prairie-fowl  shall  die, 
My  rifle  for  thy  feast  shall  bring 

The  wild  swan  from  the  sky. 
125 


126  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  forest's  leaping  panther, 
Fierce,  beautiful,  and  fleet, 

Shall  yield  his  spotted  hide  to  be 
A  carpet  for  thy  feet. 

I  know,  for  thou  has  told  me, 

Thy  maiden  love  of  flowers ; 
Ah,  those  that  deck  thy  gardens 

Are  pale  compared  with  ours. 
When  our  wide  woods  and  mighty  lawns 

Bloom  to  the  April  skies, 
The  earth  has  no  more  gorgeous  sight 

To  show  to  human  eyes. 
In  meadows  red  with  blossoms, 

All  summer  long,  the  bee 
Murmurs,  and  loads  his  yellow  thighs, 

For  thee,  my  love,  and  me. 

Or  wouldst  thou  gaze  at  tokens 

Of  ages  long  ago  — 
Our  old  oaks  stream  with  mosses, 

And  sprout  with  mistletoe ; 
And  mighty  vines,  like  serpents,  climb 

The  giant  sycamore ; 
And  trunks,  o'erthrown  for  centuries, 

Cumber  the  forest  floor ; 
And  in  the  great  savannas 

The  solitary  mound, 


THE  HUNTER'S   SERENADE.  127 

Built  by  the  elder  world,  o'erlooks 
The  loneliness  around. 


Come,  thou  hast  not  forgotten 

Thy  pledge  and  promise  quite, 
With  many  blushes  murmured, 

Beneath  the  evening  light. 
Come,  the  young  violets  crowd  my  door, 

Thy  earliest  look  to  win, 
And  at  my  silent  window-sill 

The  jessamine  peeps  in. 
All  day  the  red-bird  warbles, 

Upon  the  mulberry  near, 
And  the  night-sparrow  trills  her  song, 

All  night,  with  none  to  hear. 


SONG   OF   MARION'S   MEN. 


OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear : 
When  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
128 


SONG   OF  MARION'S  MEN.  129 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly, 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads  — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  our  fiery  barbs  to  guide 

Across  the  moonlight  plains ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  their  tossing  manes. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 


130  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band, 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms. 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  \ve  have  driven  the  Briton, 
r,  from  our  shore. 


SONG. 


DOST  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft; 

Would  that  men's  were  truer ! 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing : 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love,  — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking  ; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush, 

Stars  are  softly  winking ; 
131 


132  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 
Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing  ; 

Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 
Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain ; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies, 

In  the  weedy  fountain ; 
Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her,  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly  ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall, 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly  ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 


LOVE    AND    FOLLY. 
(FROM  LA  FONTAINE.) 


LOVE'S  worshippers  alone  can  know 

The  thousand  mysteries  that  are  hia ; 
His  blazing  torch,  his  twanging  bow, 

His  blooming  age  are  mysteries. 
A  charming  science  —  but  the  day 

Were  all  too  short  to  con  it  o'er ; 
So  take  of  me  this  little  lay, 

A  sample  of  its  boundless  lore. 

As  once,  beneath  the  fragrant  shade 

Of  myrtles  breathing  heaven's  own  air, 
The  children,  Love  and  Folly,  played  — 

A  quarrel  rose  betwixt  the  pair. 
Love  said  the  gods  should  do  him  right  — 

But  Folly  vowed  to  do  it  then, 
And  struck  him,  o'er  the  orbs  of  sight, 

So  hard,  he  never  saw  again. 

His  lovely  mother's  grief  was  deep, 
She  called  for  vengeance  on  the  deed; 
133 


134  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

A  beauty  does  not  vainly  weep, 
Nor  coldly  does  a  mother  plead. 

A  shade  came  o'er  the  eternal  bliss 
That  fills  the  dwellers  of  the  skies ; 

Even  stony-hearted  Nemesis, 

And  Rhadamanthus,  wiped  their  eyes. 

"Behold,"  she  said,  "this  lovely  boy," 

While  streamed  afresh  her  graceful  tears, 
"Immortal,  yet  shut  out  from  joy 

And  sunshine,  all  his  future  years. 
The  child  can  never  take,  you  see, 

A  single  step  without  a  staff  — 
The  harshest  punishment  would  be 

Too  lenient  for  the  crime  by  half." 

AH  said  that  Love  had  suffered  wrong, 

And  well  that  wrong  should  be  repaid ; 
Then  weighed  the  public  interest  long, 

And  long  the  party's  interest  weighed. 
And  thus  decreed  the  court  above  — 

"  Since  Love  is  blind  from  Folly's  blow. 
Let  Folly  be  the  guide  of  Love, 

Where'er  the  boy  may  choose  to  go." 


FATIMA   AND   RADUAN. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


Diamante  falso  y  fingido, 
Engastado  en  pedernal,  etc. 

''FALSE  diamonds  set  in  flint!  the  caverns  of  the 

mine 

Are  warmer  than  the  breast  that  holds  that  faith- 
less heart  of  thine ; 
Thou  art  fickle  as  the  sea,  thou  art  wandering  as 

the  wind, 
And  the  restless  ever-mounting  flame  is  not  more 

hard  to  bind. 
If  the  tears  I  shed  were  tongues,  yet  all  too  few 

would  be, 
To  tell  of  all  the  treachery  that  thou  hast  shown 

to  me. 
Oh !     I    could    chide    thee    sharply  —  but    every 

maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he 

goes. 

13C 


136  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"  Thou  hast  called  me  oft  the  flower  of  all  Grenada's 

maids, 
Thou  hast  said  that  by  the  side  of  me  the  first  and 

fairest  fades ; 
And  they   thought   thy   heart   was   mine,  and   it 

seemed  to  every  one 
That  what  thou  didst  to  win  my  love,  from  love  of 

me  was  done. 
Alas!    if  they  but  knew  thee,  as   mine   it  is  to 

know, 
They  well  might  see  another  mark  to  which  thine 

arrows  go; 
But  thou  giv'st  me  little  heed  —  for  I  speak  to  one 

who  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he 

goes. 

"  It  wearies  me,  mine  enemy,  that  I  must  weep  and 

bear 
What  fills  thy  heart  with  triumph,  and  fills  my 

own  with  care. 
Thou  art  leagued  with  those  that  hate  me,  and  ah ! 

thou  know'st  I  feel 
That  cruel  words  as  surely  kill  as  sharpest  blades 

of  steel. 
'Twas  the  doubt  that  thou  wert  false  that  wrung 

my  heart  with  pain ; 
But,   now  I   know  thy   perfidy,  I   shall  be  well 

again. 


FATIMA  AND  RADUAN.  137 

I  would  proclaim  thee  as  thou  art  —  but  every 

maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he 


Thus  Fatima  complained  to  the  valiant  Eaduan, 
Where  underneath  the  myrtles  Alhambra's  foun- 
tains ran : 
The  Moor  was  inly  moved,  and  blameless  as  he 

was, 
He  took  her  white  hand  in  his  own,  and  pleaded 

thus  his  cause : 
"  Oh,  lady,  dry  those  star-like  eyes  —  their  dimness 

does  me  wrong ; 
If  my  heart  be  made  of  flint,  at  least  'twill  keep 

thy  image  long : 
Thou  hast  uttered  cruel  words  —  but  I  grieve  the 

less  for  those, 
Since  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes." 


THE   DEATH   OF  ALIATAR. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


'Tis  not  with  gilded  sabres 

That  gleam  in  baldricks  blue, 
Nor  nodding  plumes  in  caps  of  Fez, 

Of  gay  and  gaudy  hue  — 
But,  habited  in  mourning  weeds, 

Come  marching  from  afar, 
By  four  and  four,  the  valiant  men 

Who  fought  with  Aliatar. 
All  mournfully  and  slowly 

TJie  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

The  banner  of  the  Phoenix, 

The  flag  that  loved  the  sky, 
That  scarce  the  wind  dared  wanton  with, 

It  flew  so  proud  and  high  — 
Now  leaves  its  place  in  battle-field, 

And  sweeps  the  ground  in  grief. 
The  bearer  drags  its  glorious  folds 

Behind  the  fallen  chief, 
138 


THE  DEATH  OF  ALIATAR.  139 

As  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Brave  Aliatar  led  forward 

A  hundred  Moors  to  go 
To  where  his  brother  held  Motril 

Against  the  leaguering  foe. 
On  horseback  went  the  gallant  Moor, 

That  gallant  band  to  lead : 
And  now  his  bier  is  at  the  gate, 

From  whence  he  pricked  his  steed. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

The  knights  of  the  Grand  Master 

In  crowded  ambush  lay ; 
They  rushed  upon  him  where  the  reeds 

Were  thick  beside  the  way ; 
They  smote  the  valiant  Aliatar, 

They  smote  him  till  he  died, 
And  broken,  but  not  beaten,  were 

The  brave  ones  by  his  side. 
Now  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 


140  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Oh !  what  was  Zayda's  sorrow, 

How  passionate  her  cries  ! 
Her  lover's  wounds  streamed  not  more  free 

Than  that  poor  maiden's  eyes. 
Say,  Love  —  for  thou  didst  see  her  tears  : 

Oh,  no  !  he  drew  more  tight 
The  blinding  fillet  o'er  his  lids, 

To  spare  his  eyes  the  sight. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Nor  Zayda  weeps  him  only, 

But  all  that  dwell  between 
The  great  Alhambra's  palace  walls 

And  springs  of  Albaicin. 
The  ladies  weep  the  flower  of  knights, 

The  brave  the  bravest  here ; 
The  people  weep  a  champion, 

The  Alcaydes  a  noble  peer. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 


THE  ALCAYDE   OF  MOLINA. 
(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


To  the  town  of  Atienza,  Molina's  brave  Alcayde, 
The  courteous  and  the  valorous,  led  forth  his  bold 

brigade. 
The  Moor  caine  back  in  triumph,  he  came  without 

a  wound, 
With   many  a  Christian  standard,  and  Christian 

captive  bound. 
He  passed  the  city  portals,  with  swelling  heart 

and  vein, 
And  toward    his   lady's   dwelling,   he   rode   with 

slackened  rein ; 
Two  circuits  on  his  charger  he  took,  and  at  the 

third, 
From  the  door  of  her  balcony  Zelinda's  voice  was 

heard. 
"  Now  if  thou  wert  not  shameless,"  said  the  lady 

to  the  Moor, 
"  Thou  wouldst  neither  pass  my  dwelling,  nor  stop 

before  my  door. 

141 


142  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Alas  for  poor  Zelinda,  and  for  her  wayward  mood, 
That  one  in  love  with  peace,  should  have  loved  a 

man  of  blood ! 
Since  not  that  thou  wert  noble  I  chose  thee  for  my 

knight, 
But  that  thy  sword  was  dreaded  in  tourney  and  in 

fight. 
Ah,  thoughtless  and  unhappy !  that  I  should  fail 

to  see 
How  ill  the  stubborn  flint  and  the  yielding  wax 

agree. 
Boast  not  thy  love  for  me,  while  the  shrieking  of 

the  fife 
Can  change  thy  mood  of  mildness  to  fury  and  to 

strife. 
Say  not  my  voice  is  magic  —  thy  pleasure  is  to 

hear 
The  bursting  of  the  carbine,  the  shivering  of  the 

spear. 
Well,  follow  thou  thy  choice  —  to  the  battle-field 

away, 
To  thy  triumphs  and  thy  trophies,  since  I  am  less 

than  they. 
Thrust  thy   arm   into   thy   buckler,  gird   on   thy 

crooked  brand, 
And  call   upon   thy   trusty   squire   to  bring  thy 

spears  in  hand. 
Lead  forth  thy  band  to  skirmish,  by  mountain  and 

by  mead, 


THE  ALCAYDE  OF  MOLINA.  143 

On  thy  dappled  Moorish  barb,  or  thy  fleeter  border 

steed. 
Go,  waste  the  Christian  hamlets,  and  sweep  away 

their  flocks, 
From   Almazan's    broad    meadows    to    Siguenza's 

rocks. 
Leave  Zelinda  altogether,  whom  thou  leavest  oft 

and  long, 
And  in  the  life  thou  lovest  forget  whom  thou  dost 

wrong. 
These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thee,  though  they  meet 

no  more  thine  own, 
Though  they  weep  that  thou  art  absent,  and  that  I 

am  all  alone." 
She  ceased,  and  turning  from  him  her  flushed  and 

angry  cheek, 
Shut  the  door  of  her  balcony  before   the   Moor 

could  speak. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  VILLEGAS. 


'Tis  sweet,  in  the  green  Spring, 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around ; 

Birds  in  the  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground ; 

A  thousand  odors  rise, 
Breathed  up  from  blossoms  of  a  thousands  dies. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook ; 

Forever  fresh  and  full, 
Shines,  at  their  feet,  the  thirst-inviting  brook ; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreams. 

Thou,  who  alone  art  fair, 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  far  away. 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there, 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay ; 

I  care  not  if  the  train 
Of  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again. 


144 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BLESSED. 
(FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LUIS  PONCE  DE  LEON.) 


REGION  of  life  and  light ! 

Land  of  the  good  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er ! 
Nor  frost  nor  heat  may  blight 
Thy  vernal  beauty,  fertile  shore, 

Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  for  evermore ! 

There,  without  crook  or  sling, 
Walks  the  Good  Shepherd ;  blossoms  white  and  red 

Round  his  meek  temples  cling ; 

And,  to  sweet  pastures  led, 
His  own  loved  flock  beneath  his  eye  is  fed. 

He  guides,  and  near  him  they 
Follow  delighted,  for  he  makes  them  go 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow, 
Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

He  leads  them  to  the  height 
Named  of  the  infinite  and  long-sought  Good, 
And  fountains  of  delight ; 
145 


146  BRYANT'S   POEMS. 

And  where  his  feet  have  stood 
Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies, 
The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bound, 

Reposing  as  he  lies, 

With  all  his  flock  around, 
He  witches  the  still  air  with  numerous  sound. 

From  his  sweet  lute  flow  forth 
Immortal  harmonies,  of  power  to  still 

All  passions  born  of  earth, 

And  draw  the  ardent  will 
Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil. 

Might  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath  of  that  high  melody, 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it  till  it  be 
Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  oh  love  !  in  thee. 

Ah !  then  my  soul  should  know, 
Beloved !   where  thou  liest  at  noon  of  day, 

And  from  this  place  of  woe 

Released,  should  take  its  way 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock  and  never  stray. 


MARY   MAGDALEN. 

(FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    BABTOLOME    LEONARDO 

DE   ARGENSOLA.) 


BLESSED,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted  ! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn, 

In  wonder  and  in  scorn  ! 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed ; 
Thou  weepest,   and    thy  tears  have  power  to 

move 
The  Lord  to  pity  and  love. 

The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 

On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 
Thou  didst   kneel  down,  to  Him  who  came  from 

heaven, 

Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 
The  ragged  brier  should  change ;  the  bitter  fir 
Distil  Arabian  myrrh ; 
147 


148  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 

The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the  swain 
Bear  home  the  abundant  grain. 

But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  mountains 
Thick  to  their  top  with  roses  ;  come  and  see 

Leaves  on  the  dry  dead  tree  : 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 
Grows  fruitful,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise, 
Forever,  toward  the  skies. 


THE   SIESTA. 
(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


Vientecico  murmurador, 
Que  lo  gozas  y  an  das  todo,  etc. 

AIRS,  that  wander  and  murmur  round, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow  ! 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her  noonday  rest, 
Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er. 

Sweet  be  her  slumbers  !  though  in  my  breast 
The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more. 

Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profound, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Airs  !  that  over  the  bending  boughs, 
And  under  the  shadows  of  the  leaves, 

Murmur  soft,  like  my  timid  vows 

Or  the  secret  sigh  my  bosom  heaves,  — 
149 


150  SEYANT'S  POEMS. 


Gently  sweeping  the  grassy  ground, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH 

OF    PEDRO    DE    CASTRO    Y    ANAYA. 


STAY,  rivulet,  nor  haste  to  leave 

The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee. 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea  at  eve, 

When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee  ? 

Born  when  the  skies  began  to  glow, 

Humblest  of  all  the  rock's  cold  daughters, 

No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 

Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waters. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  moonbeams  look, 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftest, 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook, 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 

Ah  !  what  wild  haste  !  —  and  all  to  be 

A  river  and  expire  in  ocean. 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 
151 


152  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Far  better  'twere  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale,  these  flowers  to  cherish, 
And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill, 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 


THE   COUNT   OF   GREIERS. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN.) 


V.T  morn  the  Count  of  Greiers  before  his  castle 

stands ; 
He  sees  afar  the  glory  that  lights  the  mountain 

lands ; 
The  horned  crags  are  shining,  and  in  the  shade 

between 
A  pleasant  Alpine  valley  lies  beautifully  green. 

"  Oh,  greenest  of  the  valleys,  how  shall  I  come  to 

thee! 
Thy  herdsmen  and  thy  maidens,  how  happy  must 

they  be ! 
I  have  gazed  upon  thee  coldly,  all  lovely  as  thou 

art, 
But  the  wish  to  walk  thy  pastures  now  stirs  my 

inmost  heart." 

153 


154  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

He  hears  a  sound  of  timbrels,  and  suddenly  appear, 
A  troop  of  ruddy  damsels  and  herdsmen  drawing 

near ; 
They  reach  the  castle  greensward,  and  gayly  dance 

across ; 
The  white  sleeves  flit  and  glimmer,  the  wreaths 

and  ribbons  toss. 

The  youngest  of  the  maidens,  slim  as  a  spray  of 

spring, 
She  takes  the  young  Count's  fingers,  and  draws 

him  to  the  ring ; 
They  fling  upon  his  forehead  a  crown  of  mountain 

flowers, 
"  And  ho,  young  Count  of  Greiers !   this  morning 

thou  art  ours  ! " 

Then  hand   in   hand   departing,   with   dance   and 

roundelay, 
Through  hamlet  after  hamlet,  they  lead  the  Count 

away. 
They  dance  through  wood  and  meadow,  they  dance 

across  the  linn, 
Till  the  mighty  Alpine   summits   have   shut   the 

music  in. 

The  second  morn  is  risen,  and  now  the  third  is  come  ; 
Where  stays  the  Count  of  Greiers  ?   has  he  forgot 
his  home  ? 


THE  COUNT  OF  GREIERS.  155 

Again  the  evening  closes,  in  thick  and  sultry  air, 
There's  thunder  on  the  mountains,  the  storm  is 
gathering  there. 

The  cloud  has  shed  its  waters,  the  brook  comes 

swollen  down; 
You  see  it  by  the  lightning  —  a  river  wide  and 

brown. 
Around  a  struggling  swimmer  the  eddies  dash  and 

roar, 
Till,  seizing  on  a  willow,  he  swings  him  to  the 

shore. 

"  Here  am  I  cast  by  tempests  far  from  your  moun- 
tain delL 

Amid  our  evening  dances  the  bursting  deluge  fell. 

Ye  all,  in  cots  and  caverns,  have  'scaped  the  water- 
spout, 

While  me  alone  the  tempest  o'erwhelmed  and 
hurried  out. 

"Farewell,   with    thy   glad    dwellers,   green  vale 

among  the  rocks ! 
Farewell  the  swift   sweet   moments,   in    which   I 

watched  thy  flocks ! 
Why  rocked  they  not  my  cradle  in  that  delicious 

spot, 
That  garden  of  the  happy,  where  Heaven  endures 

me  not  ? 


156  BRYANT1  S   POEMS. 

"  Kose  of  the  Alpine  valley  !  I  feel,  in  every  vein, 

Thy  soft  touch  on  my  fingers ;  oh,  press  them  not 
again ! 

Bewitch  me  not,  ye  garlands,  to  tread  that  upward 
track, 

And  thou,  my  cheerless  mansion,  receive  thy  mas- 
ter back." 


SONG. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  IGLESIAS.) 


ALEXIS  calls  me  cruel ; 

The  rifted  crags  that  hold 
The  gathered  ice  of  winter, 

He  says,  are  not  more  cold. 

When  even  the  very  blossoms 
Around  the  fountain's  brim, 

And  forest  walks,  can  witness 
"The  love  I  bear  to  him. 

I  would  that  I  could  utter 
My  feelings  without  shame ; 

And  tell  him  how  I  love  him, 
Nor  wrong  my  virgin  fame. 

Alas  !   to  seize  the  moment 
When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 

And  press  a  suit  with  passion, 
Is  not  a  woman's  part. 

If  man  comes  not  to  gather 
The  roses  where  they  stand, 

They  fade  among  their  foliage ; 
They  cannot  seek  his  hand. 
157 


SONNET. 

("FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE    OF    SEMEDO.) 


IT  is  a  fearful  night ;  a  feeble  glare 

Streams  from  the  sick  moon  in  the  o'erclouded 
sky; 

The  ridgy  billows,  with  a  mighty  cry, 
Rush  on  the  foamy  beaches  wild  and  bare ; 
No  bark  the  madness  of  the  waves  will  dare ; 

The  sailors  sleep ;  the  winds  are  loud  and  high  ; 

Ah,  peerless  Laura !  for  whose  love  I  die, 
Who  gazes  on  thy  smiles  while  I  despair  ? 

As  thus,  in  bitterness  of  heart,  I  cried, 
I  turned,  and  saw  my  Laura,  kind  and  bright, 

A  messenger  of  gladness,  at  my  side  : 
To  my  poor  bark  she  sprang  with  footstep  light, 

And  as  we  furrowed  Tago's  heaving  tide, 
I  never  saw  so  beautiful  a  night. 


158 


LOVE  IN   THE   AGE   OF   CHIVALRY. 

(FROM  PEYRE  VIDAL,  THE  TROUBADOUR.) 


THE  earth  was  sown  with  early  flowers, 

The  heavens  were  blue  and  bright  — 
I  met  a  youthful  cavalier 

As  lovely  as  the  light. 
I  knew  him  not  —  but  in  my  heart 

His  graceful  image  lies, 
And  well  I  marked  his  open  brow, 

His  sweet  and  tender  eyes, 
His  ruddy  lips  that  ever  smiled, 

His  glittering  teeth  betwixt, 
And  flowing  robe  embroidered  o'er, 

With  leaves  and  blossoms  mixed. 
He  wore  a  chaplet  of  the  rose, 

His  palfrey,  white  and  sleek, 
Was  marked  with  many  an  ebon  spot, 

And  many  a  purple  streak ; 
Of  jasper  was  his  saddle-bow, 

His  housings  sapphire  stone, 
And  brightly  in  his  stirrup  glanced 

The  purple  calcedon. 
159 


160  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Fast  rode  the  gallant  cavalier, 

As  youthful  horsemen  ride ; 
"Peyre  Vidal!  know  that  I  am  Love," 

The  blooming  stranger  cried ; 
"And  this  is  Mercy  by  my  side, 

A  dame  of  high  degree ; 
This  maid  is  Chastity,"  he  said, 

"  This  squire  is  Loyalty." 


THE   LOVE   OF  GOD. 

(FKOM  THE  PROVENCAL  OF  BERNARD  RASCAS.) 


ALL  things  that  are  on  earth  shall  wholly  pass 

away, 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last 

for  aye. 
The  forms  of   men   shall   be   as  they  had  never 

been; 
The    blasted    groves    shall  lose   their  fresh  and 

tender  green; 
The  birds  of  the  thicket  shall  end  their  pleasant 

song, 

And  the  nightingale  shall  cease  to  chant  the  even- 
ing long. 
The  kine  of  the  pasture  shall  feel  the  dart  that 

kills, 
And  all  the  fair  white  flocks  shall  perish  from  the 

hills. 
The   goat   and  antlered   stag,   the   wolf   and  the 

fox, 
The  wild-boar  of  the  wood,  and  the  chamois  of  the 

rocks, 

161 


162  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  the  strong  and  fearless  bear,  in  the  troddec 

dust  shall  lie ; 
And  the  dolphin  of  the  sea,  and  the  mighty  whale, 

shall  die. 
And  realms  shall  be  dissolved,  and  empires  be  no 

more, 
And   they  shall   bow  to   death,   who   ruled  from 

shore  to  shore ; 
And  the  great  globe  itself  (so  the  holy  writings 

tell), 
With   the   rolling    firmament,   where    the    starry 

armies  dwell, 
Shall  melt  with  fervent  heat  —  they  shall  all  pass 

away, 
Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last 

for  aye. 


THE   HURRICANE. 


LORD  of  the  winds  !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky  ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vein, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane  ! 

And  lo  !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails ; 
Silent,  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong, 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 
Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come ; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast  —  and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze, 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral  ray  — 
A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 
To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard, 
Uplifted  among-  the  mountains  round, 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 
163 


164  BRYANT'S  POEJ1S. 

He  is  come !  he  is  come  !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 
Giant  of  air  !  we  bid  thee  hail !  — 
How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale ; 
How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent, 
To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament, 
And  fold,  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace, 
From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker  —  still  darker !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
The  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air  : 
And  hark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariot  of  God  in  the  thunder-cloud ! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  flashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 
As  the  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below, 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 

What  roar  is  that  ?  —  'tis  the  rain  that  breaks, 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes, 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 
Ah !  well-known  woods,  and  mountains,  and  skies, 
With  the  very  clouds  !  —  ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 
I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 
The  shadowy  tempest  that  sweeps  through  space, 
A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 
Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  buries  all. 
And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 
Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 


MARCH. 


THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies  ; 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild  stormy  month !  in  praise  of  thee ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands  again, 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 
165 


166  BRYANT'S    POEMS. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms,  the  sullen  threat ; 

But,  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


SPRING   IN   TOWN. 


THE  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses  —  showers  and  sunshine  bring 
Slowly,  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  the  earth ; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  singing-birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 
Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of 
May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom  — 

And  lo  !   our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 

Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 
That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 

Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon, 
And  they   who   search  the   untrodden  wood   for 

flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 
167 


168  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

For  here  are  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 
Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies, 

And  foreheads,  white,  as  when  in  clusters  set, 
The  anemones  by  forest  fountains  rise ; 

And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 

Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 

Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled, 

Thrice  happy  man !   whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 
And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-knots  of  the 
world ; 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  color  keepest, 

And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest. 

And  well  thou  may'st  —  for  Italy's  brown  maids 
Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows  are 
dressed, 

And  Gascon  lasses,  from  their  jetty  braids, 
Crop  half,  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  the  rest ; 

But  the  fresh  Norman  girls  their  tresses  spare, 

And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then,  henceforth,  let  no  maid  nor  matron  grieve, 
To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 

Frouzy  or  thin,  for  liberal  art  shall  give 
Such  piles  of  curls  as  nature  never  knew. 

Eve,  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 

Had  blushed,  outdone,  and  owned  herself  a  frierht 


SPRING  IN   TOWN.  IQQ 

Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street, 
Like  notes  of  woodbirds,  and  where'er  the  eye 

Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twinkling 

feet 
Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by. 

The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 

Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter  pace. 

No  swimming  Juno  gait,  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn, 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame,  was  driven  away 

To  Sing  Sing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  Bay. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots !   who  will  care 
For  steeds  or  footmen  now  ?   ye  cannot  show 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 
And  last  edition  of  the  shape  !     Ah  no, 

These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 

And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


SUMMER   WIND. 


IT  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grak. 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shadr 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  '..int 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  aguin 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors  :  the  tall  maize 
Eolls  up  its  long  green  leaves ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven,  — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains  —  their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether  —  fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
170 


SUMMER    WIND.  171 

Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.     Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  comes ! 
Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves  ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


AUTUMN   WOODS. 


ERE,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 

In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape  round 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow, 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 
In  these  bright  walks;    the  sweet  south-west,  at 

play, 
Flies,    rustling,    where    the    painted    leaves    are 

strown 

Along  the  winding  way. 
172 


AUTUMN   WOODS.  173 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile,  — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 

Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ; 
Their  sunny-colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 

Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters  run, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But,  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad; 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad ! 


174  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Ah  !  'twere  a  lot  too  blessed 
Forever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray ; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  south-west 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad  —  the  tug  for  wealth  and 

power, 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


A   WINTER   PIECE. 


THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit  —  when  the  unsteady  pulse- 
Beat  with  strange   flutterings  —  I  would  wander 

forth 

And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 
Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 
That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then  the. 

chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 
In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
175 


176  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 
Deems    highest,    to    converse    with   her.      When 

shrieked 

The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods, 
And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades, 
That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 
Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still;  they 


Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks ;  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 

The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams, 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 

By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 

Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 

Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 

Among  them,  when  the   clouds,  from   their  still 

skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 
And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 
Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 
Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 
Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 
Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 
Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 


A    WINTER  PIECE.  177 

And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.      Through  the  sno^ 
The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  raccoon's  broad  path  were  there, 
Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree, 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes,  —  he  boasts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows ; 
Or  Autumn,  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come,  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees  with 

ice; 

While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look !   the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  twinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  stvidded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
ITiat  stream  with  rainbow  radiance  as  they  move. 
But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.     Oh  !   you  might  deem  the  spot, 
The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgia  mine, 


178  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth  —  where  the  gems  grow, 
And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 
With  amethyst  and  topaz  —  and  the  place 
Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun ;  — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches ;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 
Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye,  — 
Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 
There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spoiiting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light ; 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 
With   the   next   sun.     From  the  numberless  vast 

trunks, 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 
Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines,  — 
'Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Boll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 


A    WINTER  PIECE.  179 

Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops, 
Falls,  'mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at  — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail, 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forests  in  his  rage. 


"OH  FAIREST   OF   THE   RURAL 
MAIDS ! " 


OH  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thy  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place. 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thy  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 
180 


OH  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL  MAIDS /"    181 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  impressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes  is  there. 


THE   DISINTERRED    WARRIOR. 


GATHER  him  to  his  grave  again 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away. 
Pay  the  deep  reverence,  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  death ; 
Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath. 

The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part  — 

That  reninant  of  a  martial  brow, 
Those  ribs  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 

That  strong  arm  —  strong  no  longer  now. 
Spare  them,  each  mouldering  relic  spare, 

Of  God's  own  image ;  let  them  rest, 
Till  not  a  trace  shall  speak  of  where 

The  awful  likeness  was  impressed. 

For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 
That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 

And  to  the  elements  did  stand 
In  nearer  kindred  than  our  race. 
182 


THE  DISINTERRED    WARRIOR.  183 

In  many  a  flood  to  madness  tossed, 
In  many  a  storm  has  been  his  path ; 

He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 
But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath. 

Then  they  were  kind  —  the  forests  here, 

Bivers,  and  stiller  waters  paid 
A  tribute  to  the  net  and  spear 

Of  the  red  ruler  of  the  shade. 
Fruits  on  the  woodland  branches  lay, 

Roots  in  the  shaded  soil  below, 
The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way, 

The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe. 

A  noble  race !  but  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon  — 

Ah,  let  us  spare,  at  least,  their  graves ! 


THE  GREEK   BOY. 


GONE  are  the  glorious  Greeks  of  old, 

Glorious  in  mien  and  mind ; 
Their  bones  are  mingled  with  the  mould, 

Their  dust  is  on  the  wind  ; 
The  forms  they  hewed  from  living  stone, 
Survive  the  waste  of  years,  alone, 
And,  scattered  with  their  ashes,  show 
What  greatness  perished  long  ago. 

Yet  fresh  the  myrtles  there  —  the  springs 

Gush  brightly  as  of  yore ; 
Flowers  blossom  from  the  dust  of  kings, 

As  many  an  age  before. 
There  Nature  moulds  as  nobly  now, 
As  e'er  of  old,  the  human  brow ; 
And  copies  still  the  martial  form 
That  braved  Platsea's  battle  storm. 

Boy !  thy  first  looks  were  taught  to  seek 
Their  Heaven  in  Hellas'  skies  ; 

Her  airs  have  tinged  thy  dusky  cheek, 
Her  sunshine  lit  thine  eyes ; 
184 


THE  GREEK  BOY.  185 

Thine  ears  have  drunk  the  woodland  strains 
Heard  by  old  poets,  and  thy  veins 
Swell  with  the  blood  of  demigods, 
That  slumber  in  thy  country's  sods. 

Now  is  thy  nation  free  —  though  late  — 

Thy  elder  brethren  broke  — 
Broke,  ere  thy  spirit  felt  its  weight, 

The  intolerable  yoke. 
And  Greece,  decayed,  dethroned,  doth  see 
Her  youth  renewed  in  such  as  thee : 
A  shoot  of  that  old  vine  that  made 
The  nations  silent  in  its  shade. 


"UPON   THE   MOUNTAIN'S   DISTANT 
HEAD." 


UPON  the  mountain's  distant  head, 
With  trackless  snows  forever  white, 

Where  all  is  still,  and  cold,  and  dead, 
Late  shines  the  day's  departing  light. 

But  far  below  those  icy  rocks,  — 
The  vales,  in  summer  bloom  arrayed, 

Woods  full  of  birds,  and  fields  of  flocks, 
Are  dim  with  mist  and  dark  with  shade. 

'Tis  thus,  from  warm  and  kindly  hearts 
And  eyes  where  generous  meanings  burn, 

Earliest  the  light  of  life  departs, 
But  lingers  with  the  cold  and  stern. 


186 


SONNET  — WILLIAM   TELL. 


CHAINS  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 
TELL,  of  the  iron  heart !  they  could  not  tame  ; 
For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains ;  they  proclaim 

The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 

That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow, 
Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can  hold, 
Save  that  of  God,  when  he  sends  forth  his  cold, 

And    breathed    by  winds  that  through  the   free 
heaven  blow. 

Thou,  while  thy  prison  walls  were  dark  around, 
Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught, 
And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 

A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened  thee 

For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 


187 


TO  THE   RIVER   ARVE. 

(SUPPOSED   TO    BE  WRITTEN  AT   A    HAMLET  NEAB 
THE  FOOT  OF  MONT  BLANC.) 


NOT  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks, 

Thou  rapid  Arve !  thy  waters  flow ; 
Nor  earth  within  its  bosom,  locks 

Thy  dark  unfathomed  wells  below. 
Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 

Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice-peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam, 

Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst. 

•  Born  where  the  thunder  and  the  blast, 

And  morning's  earliest  light  are  born, 
Thou  rushest  swoln,  and  loud,  and  fast, 

By  these  low  homes,  as  if  in  scorn : 
Yet  humbler  springs  yield  purer  waves ; 

And  brighter,  glassier  streams  than  thine, 
Sent  up  from  earth's  unlighted  caves, 

With  heaven's  own  beam  and  image  shine. 

Yet  stay  !  for  here  are  flowers  and  trees ; 

Warm  rays  on  cottage  roofs  are  here, 

188 


TO   THE  RIVER  AEVE.  189 

And  laugh  of  girls,  and  hum  of  bees  — 
Here  linger  till  thy  waves  are  clear. 

Thou  heedest  not  —  thou  hastest  on ; 
From  steep  to  steep  thy  torrent  falls, 

Till,  mingling  with  the  mighty  Rhone, 
It  rests  beneath  Geneva's  walls. 

Rush  on  —  but  were  there  one  with  me 

That  loved  me,  I  would  light  my  hearth 
Here,  where  with  God's  own  majesty 

Are  touched  the  features  of  the  earth. 
By  these  old  peaks,  white,  high,  and  vast, 

Still  rising  as  the  tempests  beat, 
Here  would  I  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last, 

Among  the  blossoms  at  their  feet. 


INSCRIPTION     FOR     THE     ENTRANCE 
TO  A   WOOD. 


STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which 

needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 
Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 
That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a 

balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men 
And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 
Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 
But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  Guilt 
Her  pale  tormentor,  Misery.     Hence,  these  shades 
Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 
190 


INSCRIPTION  TO  A    WOOD.  191 

The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily.     Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 
Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 
That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 
Partake  the  detp  contentment ;  as  they  bend 
To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 
Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 
Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 
Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 
That  sucks  its  sweets.      The  massy  rocks  them- 
selves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 
That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude 
Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 
With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 
Breathed  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its  bed 
Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 
Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 
Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 
That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 
That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thoe, 
Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 
Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


"WHEN    THE    FIRMAMENT    QUIVERS 

WITH   DAYLIGHT'S   YOUNG 

BEAM." 


WHEN  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young 

beam, 

And  the  woodlands  awaking  burst  into  a  hymn, 
And  the  glow  of  the  sky  blazes  back  from  the 

stream,  — 

How  the  bright  ones  of  heaven  in  the  brightness 
grow  dim. ! 

Oh,  'tis  sad,  in  that  moment  of  glory  and  song, 
To  see,  while  the  hill-tops  are  waiting  the  sun, 

The  glittering  band  that  kept  watch  all  night  long 
O'er  Love  and  o'er  Slumber,  go  out  one  by  one : 

Till  the  circle  of  ether,  deep,  ruddy,  and  vast, 
Scarce  glimmers  with  one  of  the  train  that  were 

there ; 
And  their  leader  the  day-star,  the  brightest  and 

last, 

Twinkles  faintly  and  fades  in  that  desert  of  air. 
192 


WHEN  THE  FIRMAMENT  QUIVERS.       193 

Thus,  Oblivion,  from  midst  of  whose  shadow  we 

came, 

Steals  o'er  us  again  when  life's  twilight  is  gone  ; 
And  the  crowd  of  bright  names,  in  the  heaven  of 

fame, 

Grow  pale  and  are  quenched  as  the  jears  hasten 
on. 

Let  them  fade  —  but  we'll  pray  that  the  age,  in 

whose  flight, 
Of  ourselves  and  our  friends  the  remembrance 

shall  die, 

May  rise  o'er  the  world,  with  the  gladness  and  light 
Of  the  dawn  that  effaces  the  stars  from  the  sky. 


A  SCENE   ON  THE   BANKS   OF  THE 
HUDSON. 


COOL  shades  and  dews  are  round  my  way, 

And  silence  of  the  early  day  ; 

'Mid  the  dark  rocks  that  watch  his  bed, 

Glitters  the  mighty  Hudson  spread, 

Unrippled,  save  by  drops  that  fall 

From  shrubs  that  fringe  his  mountain  wall ; 

And  o'er  the  clear  still  water  swells 

The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells. 

All,  save  this  little  nook  of  land 

Circled  with  trees,  on  which  I  stand; 

All,  save  that  line  of  hills  which  lie 

Suspended  in  the  mimic  sky  — 

Seems  a  blue  void,  above,  below, 

Through  which  the  white  clouds  come  and  go ; 

And  from  the  green  world's  farthest  steep 

I  gaze  into  the  airy  deep. 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things  are  they, 
On  earth,  that  soonest  pass  away. 
194 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  HUDSON.  195 

The  rose  that  lives  its  little  hour, 
Is  prized  beyond  the  sculptured  flower. 
Even  love,  long  tried  and  cherished  long, 
Becomes  more  tender  and  more  strong, 
At  thought  of  that  insatiate  grave 
From  which  its  yearnings  cannot  save. 

Biver !  in  this  still  hour  thou  hast 
Too  much  of  heaven  on  earth  to  last ; 
Nor  long  may  thy  still  waters  lie, 
An  image  of  the  glorious  sky. 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  not  repose, 
And,  ere  another  evening  close, 
Thou  to  thy  tides  shalt  turn  again. 
And  I  to  seek  the  crowd  of  men. 


THE   WEST  WIND. 


BENEATH  the  forest's  skirts  I  rest, 

Whose  branching  pines  rise  dark  and  high. 

And  hear  the  breezes  of  the  West 
Among  the  threaded  foliage  sigh. 

Sweet  Zephyr !  why  that  sound  of  woe  ? 

Is  not  thy  home  among  the  flowers  ? 
Do  not  the  bright  June  roses  blow, 

To  meet  thy  kiss  at  morning  hours  ? 

And  lo !  thy  glorious  realm  outspread  — 
Yon  stretching  valleys,  green  and  gay, 

And  yon  free  hill-tops,  o'er  whose  head 
The  loose  white  clouds  are  borne  away. 

And  there  the  full  broad  river  runs, 

And  many  a  fount  wells  fresh  and  sweet, 

To  cool  thee  when  the  midday  suns 

Have  made  thee  faint  beneath  their  heat. 
196 


THE   WEST  WIND.  197 

Thou  wind  of  joy,  and  youth,  and  love ; 

Spirit  of  the  new  wakened  year ! 
The  sun  in  his  blue  realm  above 

Smooths  a  bright  path  when  thou  art  here. 

In  lawns  the  murmuring  bee  is  heard, 
The  wooing  ring-dove  in  the  shade ; 

On  thy  soft  breath,  the  new-fledged  bird 
Takes  wing,  half  happy,  half  afraid. 

Ah !  thou  art  like  our  wayward  race ;  — 

When  not  a  shade  of  pain  or  ill 
Dims  the  bright  smile  of  Nature's  face, 

Thou  lov'st  to  sigh  and  murmur  still. 


TO   A   MOSQUITO. 


FAIR  insect !  that,  with  threadlike  legs  spread  out, 
And  blood-extracting  bill  and  filmy  wing, 

Dost  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 
In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 

And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 

Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

Unwillingly,  I  own,  and,  what  is  worse, 
Full  angrily,  men  hearken  to  thy  plaint, 

Thou  gettest  many  a  brush,  and  many  a  curse, 
For   saying  thou   art   gaunt,   and   starved,  and 
faint : 

Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks  for  food, 

Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if  he  could. 

I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 
Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth, 

Thou  com'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  fresh  and  green, 
The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on  earth  ; 

For  Titan  was  thy  sire,  and  fair  was  she, 

The  ocean  nymph,  that  nursed  thy  infancy. 
198 


TO  A   MOSQUITO.  199 

Beneath  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 

And   when,    at   length,    thy  gauzy  wings    grew 
strong, 

Abroad  to  gentle  airs  their  folds  were  flung, 
Rose  in  the  sky  and  bore  thee  soft  along : 

The  south  wind  breathed  to  waft  thee  011  thy  way, 

And  danced  arid  shone  beneath  the  billowy  bay. 

And  calm,  afar,  the  city  spires  arose,  — 

Thence  didst  thou  hear  the  distant  hum  of  men, 

And  as  its  grateful  odors  met  thy  nose, 

Didst  seem  to  smell  thy  native  marsh  again ; 

Fair  lay  its  crowded  streets,  and  at  the  sight 

Thy  tiny  song  grew  shriller  with  delight. 

At  length  thy  pinions  fluttered  in  Broadway  — 
Ah,   there   were   fairy  steps,  and  white   necks 

kissed 
By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 

Shone  through  the  snowy  veils  like  stars  through 

mist; 

And  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 
Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  transparent 
skin. 

Oh,  these  were  sights  to  touch  an  anchorite ! 

What !   do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain  ? 
Thou  wailest,  when  I  talk  of  beauty's  light, 

As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain : 


20U  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Thou  art  a  wayward  being — well  —  come  near, 
And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

What  say'st  thou  —  slanderer!  —  rouge  makes  thee 
sick? 

And  China  bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food  ? 
And  Rowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

Poisons  the  thirsty  wretch  that  bores  for  blood  ? 
Go !   'twas  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime  — 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at,  not  to  touch, 
To  worship,  not  approach,  that  radiant  white ; 

And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 
As  dared,  like  thee,  most  impiously  to  bite. 

Thou  shouldst  have  gazed  at  distance  and  admired, 

Murmured  thy  adoration  and  retired. 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  the  town  —  but  why  come  here 
To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee  ? 

Alas !  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet  drawn  from  me. 

Look  round  —  the  pale-eyed  sisters  in  my  cell, 

Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

Try  some  plump  alderman,  and  suck  the  blood 
Enriched  by  generous  wine  and  costly  meat ; 

On  well-filled  skins,  sleek  as  thy  native  mud, 
Fix  thy  light  pump  and  press  thy  freckled  feet : 


TO  A  MOSQUITO.  201 

Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 

The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 

There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins  for  thee,  and  now 

The  ruddy  cheek  and  now  the  ruddier  nose 

Shall  tempt  thee,   as  thou  flittest    round    ihe 
brow; 

And,  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 

No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy 


"I    BROKE    THE    SPELL    THAT   HELD 
ME   LONG." 


I  BROKE  the  spell  that  held  me  long, 

The  dear,  dear  witchery  of  song. 

I  said,  the  poet's  idle  lore 

Shall  waste  my  prime  of  years  no  more, 

For  Poetry,  though  heavenly  born, 

Consorts  with  poverty  and  scorn. 

I  broke  the  spell  —  nor  deemed  its  power 

Could  fetter  me  another  hour. 

Ah,  thoughtless !   how  could  I  forget 

Its  causes  were  around  me  yet  ? 

For  wheresoe'er  I  looked,  the  while, 

Was  Nature's  everlasting  smile. 

Still  came  and  lingered  on  my  sight 

Of  flowers  and  streams  the  bloom  and  light, 

And  glory  of  the  stars  and  sun  ;  — 

And  these  and  poetry  are  one. 

They,  ere  the  world  had  held  me  long, 

Recalled  me  to  the  love  of  song. 


THE  CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER 

AND  VENUS. 


I  WOULD  not  always  reason.     The  straight  path 
Wearies  us  with  its  never-varying  lines, 
And  we  grow  melancholy.     I  would  make 
Eeason  my  guide,  but  she  should  sometimes  sit 
Patiently  by  the  way-side,  while  I  traced 
The  mazes  of  the  pleasant  wilderness 
Around  me.     She  should  be  my  counsellor, 
But  not  my  tyrant.     For  the  spirit  needs 
Impulses  from  a  deeper  source  than  hers, 
And  there  are  motions,  in  the  mind  of  man, 
That  she  must  look  upon  with  awe.     I  bow 
Reverently  to  her  dictates,  but  not  less 
Hold  to  the  fair  illusions  of  old  time  — 
Illusions  that  shed  brightness  over  life, 
And  glory  over  nature.     Look,  even  now, 
Where  two  bright  planets  in  the  twilight  meet, 
Upon  the  saffron  heaven,  —  the  imperial  star 
Of  Jove,  and  she  that  from  her  radiant  urn 
Pours  forth  the  light  of  love.     Let  me  believe, 
Awhile,  that  they  are  met  for  ends  of  good, 
Amid  the  evening  glory,  to  confer 


204  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Of  men  and  their  affairs,  and  to  shed  down 
Kind  influence.     Lo  !  their  obs  burn  more  bright, 
And    shake    out    softer  fires!      The   great  earth 

feels 

The  gladness  and  the  quiet  of  the  time. 
Meekly  the  mighty  river,  that  infolds 
This  mighty  city,  smooths  his  front,  and  far 
Glitters  and  burns  even  to  the  rocky  base 
Of  the  dark  heights  that  bound  him  to  the  West ; 
And  a  deep  murmur,  from  the  many  streets, 
Rises  like  a  thanksgiving.     Put  we  hence 
Dark  and  sad  thoughts  awhile  —  there's  time  for 

them 

Hereafter  —  on  the  morrow  we  will  meet, 
With  melancholy  looks,  to  tell  our  griefs, 
And  make  each  other  wretched ;  this  cairn  hour, 
This  balmy,  blessed  evening,  we  will  give 
To  cheerful  hopes  and  dreams  of  happy  days, 
Born  of  the  meeting  of  those  glorious  stars. 

Enough  of  drought   has  parched  the  year,  and 

scared 

The  land  with  dread  of  famine.     Autumn,  yet, 
Shall  make  men  glad  with  unexpected  fruits. 
The  dog-star  shall  shine  harmless ;  genial  days 
Shall  softly  glide  away  into  the  keen 
And  wholesome  cold  of  winter ;  he  that  fears 
The  pestilence,  shall  gaze  on  those  pure  beams, 
And  breathe,  with  confidence,  the  quiet  air. 


JUPITER  AND    VENUS.  205 

Emblems  of  power  and  beauty  !  well  may  they 
Shine  brightest  on  our  borders,  and  withdraw 
Toward  the  great  Pacific,  marking  out 
The  path  of  empire.     Thus,  in  our  own  land, 
Erelong,  the  better  Genius  of  our  race, 
Having  encompassed  earbh,  and  tamed  its  tribes, 
Shall  sit  him  down  beneath  the  farthest  West, 
By  the  shore  of  that  calm  ocean,  and  look  back 
On  realms  made  happy. 

Light  the  nuptial  torch, 
And  say  the  glad,  yet  solemn  rite,  that  knits 
The  youth  and  maiden.     Happy  days  to  them 
That  wed  this  evening  !  —  a  long  life  of  love, 
And  blooming  sons  and  daughters  !     Happy  they 
Born  at  this  hour,  —  for  they  shall  see  an  age 
Whiter  and  holier  than  the  past,  and  go 
Late  to  their  graves.     Men  shall  wear  softer  hearts, 
And  shudder  at  the  butcheries  of  war, 
As  now  at  other  murders. 

Hapless  Greece ! 

Enough  of  blood  has  wet  thy  rocks,  and  stained 
Thy  rivers ;  deep  enough  thy  chains  have  worn 
Their  links  into  thy  flesh ;  the  sacrifice 
Of  thy  pure  maidens,  and  thy  innocent  babes, 
And  reverend  priests,  has  expiated  all 
Thy  crimes  of  old.     In  yonder  mingling  lights 
There  is  an  omen  of  good  days  for  thee. 


206  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Thou  shalt  arise  from  'midst  the  dust  and  sit 
Again  among  the  nations.     Thine  own  arm 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee.     Not  in  wars  like  thine 
The  world  takes  part.     Be  it  a  strife  of  kings,  — 
Despot  with  despot  battling  for  a  throne,  — 
And  Europe  shall  be  stirred  throughout  her  realms, 
Nations  shall  put  on  harness,  and  shall  fall 
Upon  each  other,  and  in  all  their  bounds 
The  wailing  of  the  childless  shall  not  cease. 
Thine  is  a  war  for  liberty,  and  thou 
Must  fight  it  single-handed.     The  old  world 
Looks  coldly  on  the  murderers  of  thy  race, 
And  leaves  thee  to  the  struggle ;  and  the  new,  — 
I  fear  me  thou  couldst  tell  a  shameful  tale 
Of  fraud  and  lust  of  gain  ;  —  thy  treasury  drained, 
And  Missolonghi  fallen.     Yet  thy  wrongs 
Shall  put  new  strength  into  thy  heart  and  hand, 
And  God  and  thy  good  sword  shall  yet  work  out, 
For  thee,  a  terrible  deliverance. 


JUNE. 


I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round ; 
And  thought,  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

Within  the  silent  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  sent  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 
And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat  — 
Away  !  —  I  will  not  think  of  these  — 
Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 
The  golden  light  should  lie, 
207 


208  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale,  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ?  - 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 
The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 


JUNE.  209 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is — that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear,  again,  his  living  voice. 


THE   TWO   GRAVES. 


'Tis  a  bleak  wild  hill,  —  but  green  and  bright 
In  the  summer  warmth,  and  the  midday  light ; 
There's  the  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  chirp  of  the 

wren, 

And  the  dash  of  the  brook  from  the  alder  glen ; 
There's   the   sound  of   a  bell  from   the  scattered 

flock, 

And  the  shade  of  the  beech  lies  cool  on  the  rock, 
And    fresh    from    the   west    is    the    free   wind's 

breath  — 
There  is  nothing  here  that  speaks  of  death. 

Far  yonder,  where  orchards  and  gardens  lie, 
And  dwellings  cluster,  'tis  there  men  die. 
They  are  born,  they  die,  and  are  buried  near, 
Where  the  populous  grave-yard  lightens  the  bier ; 
For  strict  and  close  are  the  ties  that  bind 
In  death,  the  children  of  human  kind ; 
Yea,  stricter  and  closer  than  those  of  life,  — 
'Tis  a  neighborhood  that  knows  no  strife. 
They  are  noiselessly  gathered  —  friend  and  foe  — 
210 


THE  TWO  G EAVES.  211 

To  the  still  and  dark  assemblies  below  : 
Without  a  frown  or  a  smile  they  meet, 
Each  pale  and  calm  in  his  winding-sheet ; 
In  that  sullen  home  of  peace  and  gloom,. 
Crowded,  like  guests  in  a  banquet-room. 

Yet  there  are  graves  in  this  lonely  spot, 
Two  humble  graves,  —  but  I  meet  them  not. 
I  have  seen  them,  —  eighteen  years  are  past, 
Since  I  found  their  place  in  the  brambles  last,  — 
The  place  where,  fifty  winters  ago, 
An  aged  man  in  his  locks  of  snow, 
And  an  aged  matron,  withered  with  years, 
Were  solemnly  laid,  —  but  not  with  tears. 
For  none  who  sat  by  the  light  of  their  hearth, 
Beheld  their  coffins  covered  with  earth  ; 
Their  kindred  were  far,  and  their  children  dead, 
When  the  funeral  prayer  was  coldly  said. 

Two  low  green  hillocks,  two  small  gray  stones, 
Rose  over  the  place  that  held  their  bones  ; 
But  the  grassy  hillocks  are  levelled  again, 
And  the  keenest  eye  might  search  in  vain, 
'Mong  briers,  and  ferns,  and  paths  of  sheep, 
For  the  spot  where  the  aged  couple  sleep. 

Yet  well  might  they  lay,  beneath  the  soil 
Of  this  lonely  spot,  that  man  of  toil, 
And  trench  the  strong  hard  mould  with  the  spade, 


212  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Where  never  before  a  grave  was  made ; 
For  he  hewed  the  dark  old  woods  away, 
And  gave  the  virgin  fields  to  the  day,  — 
And  the  gourd  and  the  bean,  beside  his  door, 
Bloomed  where  their  flowers  ne'er  opened  before ; 
And  the  maize  stood  up,  and  the  bearded  rye 
Bent  low  in  the  breath  of  an  unknown  sky. 

"Tis  said  that  when  life  is  ended  here, 
The  spirit  is  borne  to  a  distant  sphere  ; 
That  it  visits  its  earthly  home  no  more, 
Nor  looks  on  the  haunts  it  loved  before. 
But  why  should  the  bodiless  soul  be  sent 
Far  off,  to  a  long,  long  banishment  ? 
Talk  not  of  the  light  and  the  living  green ! 
It  will  pine  for  the  dear  familiar  scene ; 
It   will  yearn,  in  that   strange   bright  world,  to 

behold 
The  rock  and  the  stream  it  knew  of  old. 

Tis  a  cruel  creed,  believe  it  not ! 
Death  to  the  good  is  a  milder  lot. 
They  are  here,  —  they  are  here,  —  that  harmless 

pair, 

In  the  yellow  sunshine  and  flowing  air, 
In  the  light  cloud-shadows,  that  slowly  pass, 
In  the  sounds  that  rise  from  the  murmuring  grass. 
They  sit  where  their  humble  cottage  stood. 
They  walk  br  "Qie  waving  edge  of  the  wood, 


THE  TWO   GRAVES.  213 

And  list  to  the  long  accustomed  flow 
Of  the  brook  that  wets  the  rocks  below. 
Patient,  and  peaceful,  and  passionless, 
As  seasons  on  seasons  swiftly  press, 
They  watch,  and  wait,  and  linger  around, 
Till  the  day  when  their  bodies  shall  leave  the 
ground. 


THE  NEW   MOON. 


WHEN,  as  the  garish  day  is  done, 
Heaven  burns  with  the  descended  sun, 

'Tis  passing  sweet  to  mark, 
Amid  that  flush  of  crimson  light, 
The  new  moon's  modest  bow  grow  bright, 

As  earth  and  sky  grow  dark. 

Few  are  the  hearts  too  cold  to  feel 
A  thrill  ol:  gladness  o'er  them  steal, 

When  first  the  wandering  eye 
Sees  faintly,  in  the  evening  blaze, 
That  glimmering  curve  of  tender  rays 

Just  planted  in  the  sky. 

The  sight  of  that  young  crescent  brings 
Thoughts  of  all  fair  and  youthful  things  - 

The  hopes  of  early  years ; 
And  childhood's  purity  and  grace, 
And  joys  that  like  a  rainbow  chase 

The  passing  shower  of  tears. 
214 


THE  NEW  MOON.  215 

The  captive  yields  him  to  the  dream 
Of  freedom,  when  that  virgin  beam 

Comes  out  upon  the  air ; 
And  painfully  the  sick  man  tries 
To  fix  his  dim  and  burning  eyes 

On  the  soft  promise  there. 

Most  welcome  to  the  lover's  sight, 
Glitters  that  pure,  emerging  light ; 

For  prattling  poets  say, 
That  sweetest  is  the  lovers'  walk, 
And  tenderest  is  their  murmured  talk, 

Beneath  its  gentle  ray. 

And  there  do  graver  men  behold 
A  type  of  errors,  loved  of  old, 

Forsaken  and  forgiven ; 
And  thoughts  and  wishes  not  of  earth, 
Just  opening  in  their  early  birth, 

Like  that  new  light  in  heaven. 


THE   GLADNESS   OF   NATURE. 


Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around ; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And   gladness    breathes    from    the    blossoming 
ground  ? 

There   are   notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and 

wren, 
And   the   gossip   of    swallows   through   all   the 

sky; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  frheir  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green 
vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 
216 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  MATURE.  217 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the 

flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles ; 
Ay,  look,  and  Le'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


TO   THE   FRINGED   GENTIAN, 


THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest,  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseei 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  Avoods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue— blue  — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 
218 


•INNOCENT    CHILD    AND   SNOW- 
WHITE   FLOWER." 


INNOCENT  child  and  snow-white  flower ! 
Well  are  ye  paired  in  your  opening  hour. 
Thus  should  the  pure  and  the  lovely  meet, 
Stainless  with  stainless,  and  sweet  with  sweet. 

White  as  those  leaves,  just  blown  apart, 
Are  the -folds  of  thy  own  young  heart ; 
Guilty  passion  and  cankering  care 
Never  have  left  their  traces  there. 

Artless  one  !  though  thou  gazest  now 
O'er  the  white  blossom  with  earnest  brow, 
Soon  will  it  tire  thy  childish  eye, 
Fair  as  it  is,  thou  wilt  throw  it  by. 

Throw  it  aside  in  thy  weary  hour, 
Throw  to  the  ground  the  fair  white  flower, 
Yet,  as  thy  tender  years  depart, 
Keep  that  white  and  innocent  heart. 


219 


SONNET  —  MIDSUMMER. 


A  POWER  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him,  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

Prom  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth  —  her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten,  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze ; 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown ; 
The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town ; 
As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned  and  sent 
Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 


220 


SONNET  —  OCTOBER. 


4.Y,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath  I 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow 
brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south !  oh,  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 

\Tourneying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 
Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  'mid  bowers  and 

brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh ; 

And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 
Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


SONNET  —  NOVEMBER. 


YET  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun ! 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapory  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are 

cast, 
And  the  blue  Gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 

Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  dark- 
ened air. 


A    MEDITATION    ON    RHODE    ISLAND 
COAL. 


Decolor,  obscurus,  vilis,  non  ille  repexam 
Csesariem  regum,  non  Candida  virginis  ornat 
Colla,  nee  insigni  splendet  per  cingula  morsu. 
Sed  nova  si  nigri  videas  rairacula  saxi, 
Tune  superat  pulchros  cultus  et  quicqnid  Eois 
Indus  litoribus  rubra  scrutatur  in  alga. 

CLAUEIAW. 

I  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 
With    Newport    coal,   and  as    the   flame   gre^ 
bright  — 

The  many-colored  flame  —  and  played  and  leaped, 
I  thought  of  rainbows  and  the  northern  light, 

Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Report, 

And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

And  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 
The  mineral  fuel ;  on  a  summer  day 

I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And  scratched  by  dwarf-oaks  in  the  hollow  way ; 

N"ow  dragged  through  sand,  now  jolted  over  stone  — 

A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 


224  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hollower  grew 

The  deep-worn  path,  and  horror-struck,  I  thought, 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ?  — 
This  long,  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot  ? 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright ; 

I  looked  —  but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 

At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay ; 
Smooth,  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 

As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay ; 
Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 
And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped  —  its  heavy  sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble  field  —  the  tall  maize  stood 

Dark  in  its  summer  growth,  and  shook  its  leaves — 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young 
wood  — 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 

The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to  door, 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 
Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er  — 

Rogue's  Island  once  —  but,  when  the  rogues  were 
dead, 

Bhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 


ON  RHODE  ISLAND   COAL.  225 

Beautiful  island !  then  it  only  seemed 

A  lovely  stranger  —  it  has  grown  a  friend. 

I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 
How  soon  that  bright  beneficent  isle  would  send 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 

To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite  !   that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slumber  long ; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to   shame  the  men  that  mean    thee 
wrong. 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate  thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they  did  wrong  thee  foully  —  they  who  mocked 
Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not  burn ; 

Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 

And  grew  profane  —  and  swore,  in  bitter  scorn, 

That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 

And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.     I  pause  to  state, 
That  I  too  have  seen  greatness  —  even  I  — 

Shook  hands  with  Adams  —  stared  at  La  Fayette 
When,  barehead,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 

He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 

From  which  three  cheers   burst   from    the    mob 
before  him. 


226  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  I  have  seen  —  not  many  months  ago  — 
An  eastern  Governor  in  chapeau  bras 

And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show ! 

Bide  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah ! 

How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan  ! 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were  won ! 

'Twas  a  great  Governor  —  thou  too  shalt  be 

Great  in  thy  turn  —  and  wide  shall  spread  thy 
fame, 

And  swiftly ;  farthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold  New  Brunswick  gladden  at  thy  name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 

That  sends  the  Boston  folks  their  cod  shall  smile. 

For  thou  shalt    forge  vast    railways,   and    shalt 
heat 

The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 
Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 

Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive, 
Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 
And  south  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters  —  boats  that  for  a  guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre  —  and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 

As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 


ON  RHODE  ISLAND   COAL.  227 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave : 

Thou,  from  that  "  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

Ajid  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 


AN   INDIAN  AT    THE    BURIAL-PLACE 
OF   HIS   FATHERS. 


IT  is  the  spot  I  came  to  seek,  — 
My  fathers'  ancient  burial-place, 

Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 
Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 

It  is  the  spot,  —  I  know  it  well  — 

Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 
A  ridge  toward  the  river-side ; 

I  know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 
The  meadows  smooth  and  wide, 

The  plains,  that,  toward  the  southern  sky, 

Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 

A  white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 
Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here, 

And  praise  the  lawns,  so  fresh  and  green, 
Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I  like  it  not  —  I  would  the  plain 

Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again. 
228 


AN  INDIAN  BURIAL-PLACE.  229 

The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 

The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 
And  laborers  turn  the  crumbling  ground, 

Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 
And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay, 
Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o'er  the  way. 

Methinks  it  were  a  nobler  sight 

To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 
Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade, 

And  herds  of  deer,  that  bounding  go 

O'er  rills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 

And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 

The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 
Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  and  tall, 

And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 
Walk  forth,  amid  his  reign,  to  dare 
The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 

This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours ; 

Hither  the  artless  Indian  maid 

Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers, 

And  the  gray  chief  and  gifted  seer 

Worshipped  the  god  of  thunders  here. 

But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 


230  BlfYANT'8  POEMS. 

And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 

The  weapons  of  his  rest, 
And  there,  in  the  loose  sand,  is  thrown 
Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah,  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave, 
Who  bore  the  lifeless  chieftain  forth; 

Or  the  young  wife,  that  weeping  gave 
Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 

That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 

Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough. 

They  waste  us  —  ay  —  like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away ; 

And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go 
Towards  the  setting  day,  — 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 

Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 

But  I  behold  a  fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  men's  eyes  are  blind ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence,  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind, 
Save  ruins  o'er  the  region  spread, 
And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 
Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed ; 

The  melody  of  waters  filled 
The  fresh  and  boundless  wood ; 


AN  INDIAN  BUEIAL-PLACE.  231 

And  torrents  dashed  and  rivulets  played, 
And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 

Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more, 
The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun, 

The  rivers,  by  the  blackened  shore, 
With  lessening  current  run  ; 

The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get 

May  be  a  barren  desert  yet. 


SONNET  — TO  COLE,  THE  PAINTER, 
DEPARTING  FOR  EUROPE. 


THINE  eyes  shall  see  the  light  of  distant  skies : 
Yet,  COLE  !    thy  heart  shall   bear  to   Europe's 

strand 
A  living  image  of  thy  native  land, 

Such  as  on  thy  glorious  canvas  lies. 

Lone  lakes  —  savannas  where  the  bison  roves  — 
Rocks    rich    with    summer    garlands  —  solemn 

streams  — 

Skies,    where    the    desert     eagle    wheels     and 
screams,  — 

Spring  bloom  and  autumn  blaze  of  boundless  groves. 

Fair  seenes  shall  greet  thee  where  thou  goest  —  fair, 
But  different  —  everywhere  the  trace  of  men, 
Paths,  homes,  graves,  ruins,  from  the  lowest  glen 

To  where  life  shrinks  from  the  fierce  Alpine  air. 
Gaze  on  them,  till  the  tears  shall  dim  thy  sight, 
But  keep  that  earlier,  wilder  image  bright. 


GREEN   RIVER. 


WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green ; 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink, 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters  —  its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 
The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill, 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond  stone. 
Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum ; 
233 


234  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air ; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shun'st  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream  !  by  the  village  side ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely  —  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still  —  save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  and  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 


That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 


GREEN  RIVER.  235 

While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
But  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud  — 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream, 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears, 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


TO  A   CLOUD. 


BEAUTIFUL  cloud !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air ! 

Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow ; 

Where,  midst  their  labor,  pause  the  reaper  train 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 

Beautiful  cloud !  I  would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea  : 

To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book ; 

On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seam  her  lands ; 

And  hear  her  humming  cities,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  great  ocean  breaking  round. 

Ay  —  I  would  sail  upon  thy  air-borne  car 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 

To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive-groves  and  vines, 

Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  bright  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie. 

But  I  would  woo  the  winds  to  let  us  rest 

O'er  Greece  long  fettered  and  oppressed, 


TO  A  CLOUD.  237 

Whose  sons  at   length   have   heard  the  call  that 

conies 

From  the  old  battle-fields  and  tombs, 
And  risen,  and  drawn  the  sword,  and  on  the  foe 
Have  dealt  the  swift  and  desperate  blow, 
And  the  Othman  power  is  cloven,  and  the  stroke 
Has  touched  its  chains,  and  they  are  broke. 
Ay,  we  would  linger  till  the  sunset  there 
Should  come,  to  purple  all  the  air, 
And  thou  reflect  upon  the  sacred  ground 
The  ruddy  radiance  streaming  round. 

Bright  meteor !  for  the  summer  noontide  made ! 

Thy  peerless  beauty  yet  shall  fade. 

The  sun,  that  fills  with  light  each  glistening  fold, 

Shall  set,  and  leave  thee  dark  and  cold : 

The  blast   shall  rend  thy  skirts,  or  thou  may'st 

frown 

In  the  dark  heaven  when  storms  come  down, 
And  weep  in  rain,  till  man's  inquiring  eye 
Miss  thee,  forever,  from  the  sky. 


AFTER   A   TEMPEST. 


THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm ;  — 

The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  over-past,  — 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm 

Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 

I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 

Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages  be- 
tween. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 

Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 

Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird  ; 

For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were 

heard 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 

And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward ; 
To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  up- 
sprung. 


AFTER   A    TEMPEST.  239 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 

Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there. 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 

That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 

The  flocks   came   scattering  from   the   thicket, 

where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them ;  in  the  way 

Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at 
play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace  —  and,  like  a  spell, 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 

Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 

And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous   scene;   while  far  beyond  them 
all, 

On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 

Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft 
golden  light. 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 

When,  o'er  earth's  continents  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony ; 


240  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 

No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 
Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were 
done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
'  And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and   sweet  the   sunshine  when  'tis 
past. 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away  —  they  break  —  they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 

On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven 
shall  lie. 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE  — A    FRAGMENT. 


EREWHILE,  on  England's  pleasant  shores,  our  sires 
Left  not  their  churchyards  unadorned  with  shades 
Or  blossoms  ;  and  indulgent  to  the  strong 
And  natural  dread  of  man's  last  home,  the  grave, 
Its  frost  and  silence  —  they  disposed  around, 
To  soothe  the  melancholy  spirit  that  dwelt 
Too  sadly  on  life's  close,  the  forms  and  hues 
Of  vegetable  beauty.  —  There  the  yew, 
Green  even  amid  the  snows  of  winter,  told 
Of  immortality,  and  gracefully 
The  willow,  a  perpetual  mourner,  drooped ; 
And  there  the  gadding  woodbine  crept  about, 
And  there  the  ancient  ivy.     From  the  spot 
Where  the  sweet  maiden,  in  her  blossoming  years, 
Cut  off,  was  laid  with  streaming  eyes,  and  hands 
That  trembled  as  they  placed  her  there,  the  rose 
Sprung  modest,  on  bowed  stalk,  and  better  spoke 
Hsr  graces,  than  the  proudest  monument. 
And  children  set  about  their  playmate's  grave 
The  pansy.     On  the  infant's  little  bed, 
Wet  at  its  planting  with  maternal  tears, 
Emblem  of  early  sweetness,  early  death, 
241 


242  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Nestled  the  lowly  primrose.     Childless  dames, 
And  maids  that  would  not  raise  the  reddened  eye,  — 
Orphans,  from  whose  young  lids  the  light  of  joy 
Fled  early,  —  silent  lovers,  who  had  given 
All  that  they  lived  for  to  the  arms  of  earth, 
Came  often,  o'er  the  recent  graves  to  strew 
Their  offerings,  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  flowers. 

The  pilgrim  bands  who  passed  the  sea  to  keep 
Their  Sabbaths  in  the  eye  of  God  alone, 
In  his  wide  temple  of  the  wilderness, 
Brought  not  these  simple  customs  of  the  heart 
With  them.      It  might  be,  while  they  laid  their 

dead 

By  the  vast  solemn  skirts  of  the  old  groves, 
And   the   fresh  virgin   soil   poured  forth  strange 

flowers 

About  their  graves ;  and  the  familiar  shades 
Of  their  own  native  isle,  and  wonted  blooms, 
And  herbs  were  wanting,  which  the  pious  hand 
Might  plant  or  scatter  there,  these  gentle  rites 
Passed  out  of  use.     Now  they  are  scarcely  known, 
And  rarely  in  our  borders  may  you  meet 
The  tall  larch,  sighing  in  the  burying-place, 
Or  willow,  trailing  low  its  boughs  to  hide 
The  gleaming  marble.     Naked  rows  of  graves 
And  melancholy  ranks  of  monuments 
Are  seen  instead,  where  the  coarse  grass,  between, 
Shoots  up  its  dull  green  spikes,  and  in  the  wind 
Hisses,  and  the  neglected  bramble  nigh, 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE— A  FRAGMENT.    243 

Offers  its  berries  to  the  school-boy's  hand, 

In  vain  — they  grow  too  near  the  dead.     Yet  here, 

Nature,  rebuking  the  neglect  of  man, 

Plants  often,  by  the  ancient  mossy  stone, 

The  briar  rose,  and  upon  the  broken  turf 

That  clothes  the  fresher  grave,  the  strawberry  vine 

Sprinkles  its  swell  with  blossoms,  and  lays  forth 

Her  ruddy,  pouting  fruit 


THE  YELLOW   VIOLET. 


WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 
And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 
Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume, 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 
First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould, 

And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 
Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  skies,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 
244 


THE   YELLOW   VIOLET.  245 

Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 
And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 

Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 

When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh. 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk, 

But  'midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 
The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried, 

I  copied  them  —  but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 
Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light, 

I'll  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 
That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 


"I   CANNOT  FORGET  WITH   WHAT 
FERVID   DEVOTION." 


I  CANNOT  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion 
I  worshipped  the  visions  of  verse  and  of  fame : 

Each  gaze  at  the  glories  of  earth,  sky,  and  ocean, 
To  my  kindled  emotions,  was  wind  over  flame. 

And  deep  were  my  musings  in  life's  early  blossom, 
'Mid  the  twilight  of  mountain  groves  wandering 

long; 
How  thrilled  my  ypung  veins,  and  how  throbbed 

my  full  bosom, 
When  o'er  me  descended  the  spirit  of  song. 

TVtong  the  deep-cloven  fells  that  for  ages  had  list- 
ened 

To  the  rush  of  the  pebble-paved  river  between, 
Where  the  kingfisher  screamed  and  gray  precipice 

glistened, 
All  breathless  with  awe  have  I  gazed  on  the 


246 


I  CANNOT  FORGET.  247 

Till  I  felt  the  dark  power  o'er  my  reveries  stealing, 
From  his  throne  in  the  depth  of  that  stern  soli- 
tude, 
/Lnd  he  breathed  through  my  lips,  in  that  tempest 

of  feeling, 

Strains  warm  with  his  spirit,  though  artless  and 
rude. 

Bright  visions!     I  mixed  with  the  world  and  ye 
faded; 

No  longer  your  pure  rural  worshipper  now ; 
In  the  haunts  your  continual  presence  pervaded, 

Ye  shrink  from  the  signet  of  care  on  my  brow. 

In  the  old   mossy  groves   on  the   breast  of  the 

mountain, 

In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters  complain, 
By  the  shade  of  the  rock,  by  the  gush  of  the  foun- 
tain, 
I  seek  your  loved  footsteps,  but  seek  them  in  vain. 

Oh,  leave  not,  forlorn  and  forever  forsaken, 
Your  pupil  and  victim,  to  life  and  its  tears  I 

But  sometimes  return,  and  in  mercy  awaken 
The  glories  ye  showed  to  his  earlier  years. 


LINES  ON  REVISITING  THE  COUNTRY. 


I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,   round,  and   green,  that   in  the  summer 

sky 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie, 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year ; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains,  to  behold, 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 
248 


ON  REVISITING   THE  COUNTRY.         249 

Here  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air ; 

And  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The   wide   earth  knows  —  when,  in  the   sultry 
time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime ; 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow, 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


SONNET—  MUTATION. 


THEY  talk  of  short-lived  pleasure  —  be  it  so  — 

Pain  dies  as  quickly :  stern,  hard-featured  pain 
Expires,  and  lets  her  weary  prisoner  go. 

The  fiercest  agonies  have  shortest  reign ; 

And  after  dreams  of  horror,  conies  again 
The  welcome  morning  with  its  rays  of  peace. 

Oblivion,  softly  wiping  out  the  stain, 
Makes  the  strong  secret  pangs  of  shame  to  cease : 
Remorse  is  virtue's  root;  its  fair  increase 

Are  fruits  of  innocence  and  blessedness  : 
Thus  joy,  o'erborne  and  bound,  doth  still  release 

His  young  limbs  from  the  chains  that  round  him 

press. 

Weep  not  that  the  world  changes  —  did  it  keep 
A  stable  changeless  state,  'twere  cause  indeed  to 
weep. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 


THE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Has  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens, 
and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western 
main. 

251 

i 


252  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air, 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure 
walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done ; 

High  toward  the  star-lit  sky 

Towns  blaze  —  the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud  — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and 
cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 

And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  foot- 
steps right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 


THE  TWENTY-SECOND  OF  DECEMBER. 


WILD  was  the  day ;  the  wintry  sea 

Moaned  sadly  on  New  England's  strand, 
When  first,  the  thoughtful  and  the  free, 
•  Our  fathers,  trod  the  desert  land. 

They  little  thought  how  pure  a  light, 

With  years,  should  gather  round  that  day ; 

How  love  should  keep  their  memories  bright, 
How  wide  a  realm  their  sons  should  sway. 

Green  are  their  bays  ;  but  greener  still 

Shall  round  their  spreading  fame  be  wreathed, 

And  regions,  now  untrod,  shall  thrill 

With  reverence,  when  their  names  are  breathed. 

Till  where  the  sun,  with  softer  fires, 

Looks  on  the  vast  Pacific's  sleep, 
The  children  of  the  pilgrim  sires 

This  hallowed  day  like  us  shall  keep. 


ODE   FOR  AN  AGRICULTURAL   CELE- 
BRATION. 


FAR  back  in  the  ages, 

The  plough  with  wreaths  was  crowned  ; 
The  hands  of  kings  and  sages 

Entwined  the  chaplet  round ; 
Till  men  of  spoil  disdained  the  toil 

By  which  the  world  was  nourished, 
And  dews  of  blood  enriched  the  soil 

Where  green  their  laurels  flourished : 
— Now  the  world  her  fault  repairs  — 

The  guilt  that  stains  her  story ; 
And  weeps  her  crimes  amid  the  cares 

That  formed  her  earliest  glory. 


The  proud  throne  shall  crumble, 

The  diadem  shall  wane, 
The  tribes  of  earth  shall  humble 

The  pride  of  those  who  reign ; 
And  War  shall  lay  his  pomp  away ;  — 

The  fame  that  heroes  cherish, 
254 


ODE.  255 


The  glory  earned  in  deadly  fray, 
Shall  fade,  decay,  and  perish. 

Honor  waits,  o'er  all  the  Earth, 
Through  endless  generations, 

The  art  that  calls  her  harvests  forth, 
And  feeds  the  expectant  nations. 


A  WALK   AT   SUNSET. 


WHEN  insect  wings  are  glistening  in  the  beam 
Of  the  low  sun,  and  mountain-tops  are  bright, 

Oh,  let  me,  by  the  crystal  valley-stream, 
Wander  amid  the  mild  and  mellow  light ; 

And  while  the  redbreast  pipes  his  evening  lay, 

Give  me  one  lonely  hour  to  hymn  the  setting  day. 

Oh,  sun  !  that  o'er  the  western  "nountains  now 
Goest  down  in  glory  !  ever  beautiful 

And  blessed  is  thy  radiance,  whether  thou 

Colorest  the  eastern  heaven  and  night-mist  cool, 

Till  the  bright  day-star  vanish,  or  on  high 

Climbest,  and  streamest  thy  white  splendors  from 
midsky. 

Yet,  loveliest  are  thy  setting  smiles,  and  fair, 

Fairest  of  all  that  earth  beholds,  the  hues 
That  live  among  the  clouds,  and  flush  the  air, 

Lingering  and  deepening  at  the  hour  of  dews. 
Then  softest  gales  are  breathed,  and  softest  heard 
The  plaining  voice  of  streams,  and  pensive  note  of 
bird. 

266 


A   WALK  AT  SUNSET.  257 

They  who  here  roamed,  of  yore,  the  forest  wide, 
Felt,  by  such  charm,  their  simple  bosoms  won ; 

They  deemed  their  quivered  warrior,  when  he  died, 
Went  to  bright  isles  beneath  the  setting  sun ; 

Where  winds  are  aye  at  peace,  and  skies  are  fair, 

And  purple-skirted  clouds  curtain  the  crimson  air. 

So,  with  the  glories  of  the  dying  day, 

Its  thousand  trembling  lights  and  changing  hues, 
The  memory  of  the  brave  who  passed  away 

Tenderly  mingled; — fitting  hour  to  muse 
On  such  grave  theme,  and  sweet  the  dream  that  shed 
Brightness  and  beauty  round  the  destiny  of  the  dead. 

For  ages,  on  the  silent  forests  here, 

Thy  beams  did  fall  before  the  red  man  came 

To  dwell  beneath  them ;  in  their  shade  the  deer 
Fed,  and  feared  not  the  arrow's  deadly  aim. 

Nor  tree  was  felled,  in  all  that  world  of  woods, 

Save  by  the  beaver's  tooth,  or  winds,  or  rush  of 
floods. 

Then  came  the  hunter  tribes,  and  thou  didst  look, 
For  ages,  on  their  deeds  in  the  hard  chase, 

And  well-fought  wars ;  green  sod  and  silver  brook 
Took  the  first  stain  of  blood ;  before  thy  face 

The  warrior  generations  came  and  passed, 

And  glory  was  laid  up  for  many  an  age  to  last. 


258  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Now  they  are  gone,  gone  as  thy  setting  blaze 
Goes  down  the  west,  while  night  is  pressing  on, 

And,  with  them,  the  old  tale  of  better  days, 
And  trophies  of  remembered  power,  are  gone. 

Yon  field  that  gives  the  harvest,  where  the  plough 

Strikes  the  white  bone,  is  all  that  tells  their  story 
now. 

I  stand  upon  their  ashes,  in  thy  beam, 
The  offspring  of  another  race,  I  stand, 

Beside  a  stream  they  loved,  this  valley  stream ; 
And  where  the  night-fire  of  the  quivered  band 

Showed  the  gray  oak  by  fits,  and  war-song  rung, 

I  teach  the  quiet  shades  the  strains  of  this  new- 
tongue. 

Farewell !  but  thou  shalt  come  again  —  thy  light 

Must  shine  on  other  changes,  and  behold 
The  place  of  the  thronged  city  still  as  night  — 
States    fallen  —  new    empires    built    upon    the 

old— 

But  never  shalt  thou  see  these  realms  again 
Darkened  by  boundless  groves,  and  roamed  by  sar 
age  men. 


HYMN   OF   THE   WALDENSES. 


HEAR,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and  the  rock ; 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the   grape   and  wave   the   grain,  are 
theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress  — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray, 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder ;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh,  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons  — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 


260  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


SONG   OF  THE   STARS. 


WHEN  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty 

breath, 

And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 
Prom  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came,  — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung, 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung. 

"  Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky,  — 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie,  — 
Each  sun,  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole ; 
With  her  isles  of  green  and  her  clouds  of  white, 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

"  For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space ; 
261 


262  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides : 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away  ! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 

In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 

How   they   brighten   and  bloom   as   they   swiftly 

pass  ! 

How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods 

lean. 


"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day -beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift    o'er    the    bright    planets    and    shed    their 

dews ; 

And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round ! 

"  Away,  away  !  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 

In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 

In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 

See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 

And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  nighty 

To  rejoice  like  us,  iA  motion  and  light. 


SONG   OF  THE  STARS.  263 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 

To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years ; 

Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent, 

To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament,  — 

The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 

To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim." 


HYMN  OF  THE   CITY. 


NOT  in  the  solitude 
Alone,  may  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or  see 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity ; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 

i 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty !  —  here,  amidst  the  crowd 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur,  deep  and  loud  — 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 
'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human  kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings 

lies, 

And  lights  their  inner  homes  — 
For  them  thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded  skies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 
264 


HYMN  OF  THE  CITY.  265 

Thy  spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along  ; 

And  this  eternal  sound  — 
Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng  — 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  thee. 

And  when  the  hours  of  rest 
Come,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast  — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment,  too,  is  thine ; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  white  it  sleeps. 


"NO  MAN   KNOWETH   HIS   SEPUL- 
CHRE." 


WHEN  he,  who,  from  the  scourge  of  wrong, 
Aroused  the  Hebrew  tribes  to  fly, 

Saw  the  fair  region,  promised  long, 
And  bowed  him  on  the  hills  to  die ; 

God  made  his  grave,  to  men  unknown, 
Where  Moab's  rocks  a  vale  infold, 

And  laid  the  aged  seer  alone 

To  slumber  while  the  world  grows  old. 

Thus  still,  whene'er  the  good  and  just 
Close  the  dim  eye  on  life  and  pain, 

Heaven  watches  o'er  their  sleeping  dust, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  comes  again. 

Though  nameless,  trampled,  and  forgot, 
His  servant's  humble  ashes  lie, 

Yet  God  has  marked  and  sealed  the  spot, 
To  call  its  inmate  to  the  sky. 


266 


"BLESSED    ARE   THEY   THAT 
MOURN." 


OH,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man,  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide,  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere, 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 
267 


268  BRYANT B  POEMS. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  has  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


THE   SKIES. 


AY  !  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament ! 

That  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  thy  bright  vault,  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  old  trees 
Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 

And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze, 
In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 

The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height, 

Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 

Thou  hast  thy  frowns  —  with  thee  on  high, 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat, 

Beyond  that  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet. 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break, 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 


270  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles  — 

Smiles  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern : 

Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles, 
A  shout  at  thy  return. 

The  glory  that  conies  down  from  thee, 

Bathes,  in  deep  joy,  the  land  and  sea. 


The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun,  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 


The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise. 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand, 
Around  my  own  beloved  land. 


And  they  are  fair  —  a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth,  the  proud  green  earth,  has  not  — 

With  all  the  forms,  and  hues,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  Heaven's  eternal  year. 


THE  SKIES.  271 

Oh,  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us  then 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest. 


THE   JOURNEY   OF  LIFE. 


BENEATH  the  waning  moon  I  walk  at  night, 
And  muse  on  human  life  —  for  all  around 

Are  dim  uncertain  shapes  that  cheat  the  sight, 
And  pitfalls  lurk  in  shade  along  the  ground, 

And  broken  gleams  of  brightness,  here  and  there, 

Glance  through,  and  leave  unwarmed  the  deathlike 


The  trampled  earth  returns  a  sound  of  fear  — 
A  hollow  sound,  as  if  I  walked  on  tombs ; 

And  lights,  that  tell  of  cheerful  homes,  appear, 
Far  off,  and  die  like  hope  amid  the  glooms. 

A  mournful  wind  across  the  landscape  flies, 

And  the  wide  atmosphere  is  full  of  sighs. 

And  I,  with  faltering  footsteps,  journey  on, 
Watching  the  stars  that  roll  the  hours  away, 

Till  the  faint  light  that  guides  me  now  is  gone, 
And,  like  another  life,  the  glorious  day 

Shall  open  o'er  me  from  the  empyreal  height, 

With  warmth,  and  certainty,  and  boundless  light. 
272 


SONNET  — TO 


AY,  thou  art  for  the  grave ;  thy  glances  shine 

Too  brightly  to  shine  long ;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes,  but  not  for  thine  — 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

And  the  vexed  ore  no  mineral  of  power ; 
And  they  who  love  thee  wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 
Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then ;   Death  should  come 

Gently,  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 
As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes,  calmly,  and  without  pain ; 
And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again. 


273 


THE   DEATH   OF  THE   FLOWERS. 


THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the 

year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows 

brown  and  sear. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  withered 

leaves  lie  dead ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the 

shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through  all 

the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sister- 
hood ? 

Alas  !   they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race 
of  flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and 
good  of  ours. 

274 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS.  275 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold 

November  rain, 
Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely 

ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long 

ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the 

summer  glow ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the 

wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn 

beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as 

falls  the  plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from 

upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still 

such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 

winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though 

all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the 

rill, 
The   south  wind  searches   for  the   flowers  whose 

fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the 

stream  no  more. 


276  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 

beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by 

my  side : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest 

cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life 

so  brief : 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young 

friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 


HYMN   TO   DEATH. 


OH  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart 
Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor  deem 
My  voice  unworthy  of  the  theme  it  tries,  — 
I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and  say 
To  the  grim  power,  The  world  hath  slandered  thee 
And  mocked  thee.     On  thy  dim  and  shadowy  brow 
They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  thee  king 
Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 
Deadly  assassin,  that  strik'st  down  the  fair, 
The  loved,   the   good  —  that  breath'st  upon  the 

lights 

Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 
And  they  go  out  in  darkness.     I  am  come, 
Not  with  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and  prayers, 
Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern  insensible  ear 
From  the  beginning.     I  am  come  to  speak 
Thy  praises.     True  it  is,  that  I  have  wept 
Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet  again ; 
And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a  life 
Dear  to  me  as  my  own.     Yet  while  the  spell 
Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  with  thee 
In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 
277 


278  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  should  utter  forth 
Thy  nobler  triumphs  :  I  will  teach  the  world 
To  thank  thee.  — Who  are  thine  accusers  ?  — Who  ? 
The  living  !  —  they  who  never  felt  thy  power, 
And  know  thee  not.     The  curses  of  the  wretch 
Whose  crimes  are  ripe,  his  sufferings  when  thy 

hand 

Is  on  him,  and  the  hour  he  dreads  is  come, 
Are  writ  among  thy  praises.     But  the  good  — 
Does  he  whom  thy  kind  hand  dismissed  to  peace, 
Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 
His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison  cell  ? 

Raise  then  the  Hymn  to  Death.     Deliverer  ! 
God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  oppressed 
And  crush  the  oppressor.     When  the  armed  chief, 
The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 
And  it  is  changed  beneath  his  feet,  and  all 
Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm  — 
Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest,  and  his  heart 
Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand 
Almighty,  sett'st  upon  him  thy  stern  grasp, 
And  the  strong  links  of  that  tremendous  chain 
That  bound   mankind   are   crumbled ;    thou    dost 

break 

Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to  dust. 
Then  the   earth  shouts    with   gladness,   and  her 

tribes 

Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 
Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 


HYMN  TO  DEATH.  279 

Nimrod,  Sesostris,  or  the  youth  who  feigned 
His  birth  from  Libyan  Ammon,  smote  even  now 
The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 
Their  chariots  o'er  our  necks.     Thou  dost  avenge, 
In  thy  good  time,  the  wrongs  of  those  who  know 
No  other  friend.     Nor  dost  thou  interpose 
Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep, 
Where  he  who  made  him  wretched  troubles  not 
His  rest  —  thou  dost  strike  down  his  tyrant  too. 
Oh,  there  is  joy  when  hands  that  held  the  scourge 
Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 
Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  horrible    . 
And  old  idolatries  ;  —  from  the  proud  fanes 
Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till  none 
Is  left  to  teach  their  worship ;  then  the  fires 
Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 
O'ercreeps  their  altars  ;  the  fallen  images 
Cumber  the  weedy  courts,  and  for  loud  hymns, 
Chanted  by  kneeling  crowds,  the  chiding  winds 
Shriek  in  the  solitary  aisles.     When  he 
Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at  all 
The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and  round 
Hedges  his  seat  with  power,  and  shines  in  wealth, — 
Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Heaven, 
And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  all  his  crimes,  cutt'st  off 
The  horrible  example.     Touched  by  thine, 
The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the  gold 
Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.     The  perjurer 


280  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and  voluble 
Against  his  neighbor's  life,  and  he  who  laughed 
And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 
Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies, 
Are  smit  with  deadly  silence.     He,  who  sold 
His  conscience  to  preserve  a  worthless  life, 
Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 
Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 
Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no  time 
For  parley  —  nor  will  bribes  unclench  thy  grasp. 
Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 
Ere  his  last  hour.     And  when  the  reveller, 
Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 
And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path  of  life 
Like  wind,  thou  point'st  him  to  the  dreadful  goal, 
And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling  eye, 
And  check'st  him  in  mid  course.     Thy  skeleton 

hand 

Shows  to  the  faint  of  spirit  the  right  path, 
And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 
Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his  crime 
Thy  ghastly  countenance,  and  his  slack  hand 
Drops  the  drawn  knife.     But,  oh,  most  fearfully 
Dost  thou  show  forth  Heaven's  justice,  when  thy 

shafts 

Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit  —  then  the  hard 
Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores 
The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he  wronged. 
Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thou  dost  pluck 


HYMN  TO  DEATH.  281 

The  guilty  secret ;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 
Are  faithless  to  the  dreadful  trust  at  length, 
And  give  it  up ;  the  felon's  latest  breath 
Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his  crime ; 
The  slanderer,  horror-smitten,  and  in  tears, 
Eecalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 
To  work  his  brother's  ruin.     Thou  dost  make 
Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 
The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life, 
And  aims  to  whelm  the  laws ;  ere  yet  the  hour 
Is  come,  and  the  dread  sign  of  murder  given. 
Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou  been 

found 

On  virtue's  side ;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 
Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good ;  the  great  of 

earth 

Had  crushed  the  weak  forever.     Schooled  in  guile 
For  ages,  while  each  passing  year  had  brought 
Its  baneful  lesson,  they  had  filled  the  world 
With  their  abominations  ;  while  its  tribes, 
Trodden  to  earth,  imbruted,  and  despoiled, 
Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship  ;  sacrifice 
Had  smoked  on  many  an  altar,  temple  roofs 
Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous    prayer    and 

hymn : 

But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 
Tak'st  off  the  sons  'of  violence  and  fraud 
In  their  green  pupilage,  their  lore  half  learned  — 
Ere  guilt  has  quite  o'errun  the  simple  heart 


282  BEY  ANT1  S  POEMS. 

God  gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted  out 
His  image.     Thou  dost  mark  them,  flushed  with 

hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 
Doubtful  and  loose  they  stand,  and  strik'st  them 

down. 


Alas,  I  little  thought  that  the  stern  power 
Whose  fearful  praise  I  sung,  would  try  me  thus 
Before  the  strain  was  ended.     It  must  cease  — 
For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  muses.     Oh,  cut  off 
Untimely  !  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search 
And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 
Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 
To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.     And,  therefore,  when  the  earth 
Eeceived  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,   shuddered  and  turned 

pale 
When  thou  wert  gone.     This  faltering  verse,  which 

thou 

Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave  —  this  —  and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 


HYMN   TO  DEATH.  283 

A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not  think 

AS  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 

As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Rest,  therefore,  thou 

Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant  steps  — 

Kest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief  sleep 

Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 

Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust. 

Now  thou  art  not — and  yet  the  men  whose  guilt 
Has  wearied  Heaven  for  vengeance  —  he  who  bears 
False  witness  —  he  who  takes  the  orphan's  bread, 
And  robs  the  widow  —  he  who  spreads  abroad 
Polluted  hands  in  mockery  of  prayer, 
Are  left  to  cumber  earth.     Shuddering  I  look 
On  what  is  written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 
The  desultory  numbers  —  let  them  stand, 
The  record  of  an  idle  revery. 


"EARTH'S  CHILDREN  CLEAVE  TO 
EARTH." 


EARTH'S  children  cleave  to  earth  —  her  frail 

Decaying  children  dread  decay. 
Yon  wreath  of  mist  that  leaves  the  vale, 

And  lessens  in  the  morning  ray : 
Look,  how,  by  mountain  rivulet, 

It  lingers,  as  it  upward  creeps, 
And  clings  to  fern  and  copsewood  set  ' 

Along  the  green  and  dewy  steeps : 
Clings  to  the  fragrant  kalmia,  clings 

To  precipices  fringed  with  grass, 
Dark  maples  where  the  wood-thrush  sings, 

And  bowers  of  fragrant  sassafras. 
Yet  all  in  vain  —  it  passes  still 

From  hold  to  hold,  it  cannot  stay, 
And  in  the  very  beams  that  fill 

The  world  with  glory,  wastes  away, 
Till,  parting  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

It  vanishes  from  human  eye, 
And  that  which  sprung  of  earth  is  now 

A  portion  of  the  glorious  sky. 


284 


TO   A   WATERFOWL. 


WHITHER,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 


286  BEY  ANT' 8  POEMS. 

Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 
Though  the  dark  night  is  near, 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shah  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides   through    the   boundless    sky   thy   certain 

flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 


ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle  cloud. 

Ah !   never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave  — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  valor  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still, 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle  cry ; 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought  —  but  thou, 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

287 


288  13  BY  ANT'S  POEMS. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year ; 

A  wild  and  many-weapoiied  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown  —  yet  faint  thou  not ! 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  hissing,  stinging  bolt  of  scorn ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  those  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave ! 


1HE   CHILD'S   FUNERAL. 


FAIB  is  thy  site,  Sorrento  !   green  thy  shore  ! 

Black  crags  behind  thee  pierce  the  clear  blue 

skies, 
The  sea,  whose  borders  ruled  the  world  of  yore, 

As  clear,  and  bluer  still,  before  thee  lies. 

Vesuvius  smokes  in  sight,  whose  fount  of  fire, 
Out-gushing,  drowned  the  cities  on  his  steeps ; 

And  murmuring  Naples,  spire  o'ertopping  spire, 
Sits  on  the  slope  beyond,  where  Virgil  sleeps. 

Here  doth  the  earth  with  flowers  of  every  hue 
Heap   her  green   breast,   when  April's   sun    is 
bright  — 

Flowers  of  the  morning-red,  or  ocean-blue, 
Or  like  the  mountain  frost  of  silvery  white. 

Currents  of  fragrance  from  the  orange  tree, 
And  sward  of  violets,  breathing  to  and  fro, 

Mingle,  and  wandering  out  upon  the  sea, 
Refresh  the  idle  boatman  where  they  blow. 


290  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Yet  even  here,  as  under  harsher  climes, 

Tears  o'er  the  loved  and  early  lost  are  shed, 

That  soft  air  saddens  with  the  funeral  chimes, 
Those  shining  flowers  are  gathered  for  the  dead. 

Here  -once  a  child,  a  playful,  smiling  one, 
All  the  day  long  caressing  and  caressed, 

Died,  when  his  little  tongue  had  just  begun 
To  lisp  the  names  of  those  he  loved  the  best. 

The  father  strove  his  struggling  grief  to  quell ; 

The  mother  wept,  as  mothers  use  to  weep ; 
Two  little  sisters  wearied  them  to  tell 

When  their  dear  Carlo  would  awake  from  sleep. 

Within  an  inner  room  his  couch  they  spread, 
His  funeral  couch ;  with  mingled  grief  and  love, 

They  laid  a  crown  of  roses  on  his  head, 

And  murmured,  "  brighter  is  his  crown  above." 

They  scattered  round  him,  on  his  snowy  sheet,    v 
Laburnum's  strings  of  sunny-colored  gems, 

Sad  hyacinth  and  violet  dim  and  SAveet, 
And  orange  blossoms  on  their  dark  green  stems- 

And  now  the  hour  is  come,  —  the  priest  is  there,— 
Torches  are  lit, — the  bells  are  tolled,  —  they  go, 

With  solemn  rites  of  blessing  and  of  prayer, 
To  lay  those  dear  remains  in  earth  below. 


THE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL.  291 

The  door  is  opened  —  hark  that  quick  glad  cry  — 
"Carlo  has  waked — has  waked,  and  is  at  play!" 

The  little  sisters  leap  and  laugh,  and  try 
To  climb  the  couch  on  which  the  infant  lay. 

And  there  he  sits,  alive,  and  gayly  shakes 

In  his  full  hands,  the  blossoms  blue  and  white, 

And  smiles  with  winking  eyes,  like  one  who  wakes 
From  a  deep  slumber  at  the  morning  light. 


THE   FOUNTAIN. 


FOUNTAIN,  that  springest  on  this  grassy  slope, 
Thy  quick  cool  murmur  mingles  pleasantly, 
With  the  cool  sound  of  breezes  in  the  beech, 
Above  me  in  the  noontide.     Thou  dost  wear 
No  stain  of  thy  dark  birthplace  ;  gushing  up 
From  the  red  mould  and  slimy  roots  of  earth, 
Thou  flashest  in  the  sun.     The  mountain  air, 
In  winter,  is  not  clearer,  nor  the  dew 
That  shines  on  mountain  blossom.     Thus  doth  God 
Bring,  from  the  dark  and  foul,  the  pure  and  bright. 

This  tangled  thicket  on  the  bank  above 
Thy  basin,  how  thy  waters  keep  it  green ! 
For  thou  dost  feed  the  roots  of  the  wild  vine 
That  trails  all  over  it,  and  to  the  twigs 
Ties  fast  her  clusters.     There  the  spice-bush  lifts 
Her  leafy  lances  ;  the  viburnum  there, 
Paler  of  foliage,  to  the  sun  holds  up 
Her  circlet  of  green  berries.     In  and  out 
The  chipping  sparrow,  in  her  coat  of  brown, 
Steals  silently,  lest  I  should  mark  her  nest. 

Not  such  thou  wert  of  yore,  ere  yet  the  axe 
Had  smitten  the  old  woods.     Then  hoary  trunks 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  29S 

Of  oak,  and  plane,  and  hickory,  o'er  thee  held 

A  mighty  canopy.     When  April  winds 

Grew  soft,  the  maple  burst  into  a  flush 

Of  scarlet  flowers.     The  tulip-tree,  high  up, 

Opened,  in  airs  of  June,  her  multitude 

Of  golden  chalices  to  humming  birds 

And  silken-winged  insects  of  the  sky. 

Frail  wood-plants  clustered  round  thy  edge  in 

Spring. 

The  liverleaf  put  forth  her  sister  blooms 
Of  faintest  blue.     Here  the  quick-footed  wolf, 
Passing  to  lap  thy  waters,  crushed  the  flower 
Of  Sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fell  like  blood.     The  deer,  too,  left 
Her  delicate  foot-print  in  the  soft  moist  mould, 
And  on  the  fallen  leaves.     The  slow-paced  bear, 
In  such  a  sultry  summer  noon  as  this, 
Stopped   at  thy   stream,   and  drank,   and   leaped 

across. 

But  thou  hast  histories  that  stir  the  heart 
With  deeper  feeling ;  while  I  look  on  thee 
They  rise  before  me.     I  behold  the  scene 
Hoary  again  with  forests  ;  I  behold 
The  Indian  warrior,  whom  a  hand  unseen 
Has  smitten  with  his  death-wound  in  the  woods, 
Creep  slowly  to  thy  well-known  rivulet, 
And  slake  his  death-thirst-     Hark,  that  quick  fierce 

cry 
That  rends  the  utter  silence ;  'tis  the  whoop 


294  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Of  battle,  and  a  throng  of  savage  men 
With  naked  arms  and  faces  stained  like  blood, 
Fill  the  green  wilderness  ;  the  long  bare  arms 
Are  heaved  aloft,  bows  twang  and  arrows  stream  ; 
Each  makes  a  tree  his  shield,  and  every  tree 
Sends  forth  its  arrow.     Fierce  the  fight  and  short, 
As  is  the  whirlwind.     Soon  the  conquerors 
And  conquered  vanish,  and  the  dead  remain 
Gashed  horribly  with  tomahawks.     The  woods 
Are  still  again,  the  frightened  bird  comes  back 
And  plumes  her  wings  ;  but  thy  sweet  waters  run 
Crimson  with  blood.     Then,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
Amid  the  deepening  twilight  I  descry 
Figures  of  men  that  crouch  and  creep  unheard, 
And  bear  away  the  dead.     The  next  day's  shower 
Shall  wash  the  tokens  of  the  fight  away. 

I  look  again  —  a  hunter's  lodge  is  built, 
With  poles  and  boughs,  beside  thy  crystal  well, 
While   the   meek   autumn   stains   the  woods  with 

gold, 

And  sheds  his  golden  sunshine.     To  the  door 
The  red  man  slowly  drags  the  enormous  bear 
Slain  in  the  chestnut  thicket,  or  flings  down 
The  deer  from  his  strong  shoulders.     Shaggy  fells 
Of  wolf  and  cougar  hang  upon  the  walls, 
And  loud  the  black-eyed  Indian  maidens  laugh, 
That  gather,  from  the  rustling  heaps  of  leaves, 
The  hickory's  white  nuts,  and  the  dark  fruit 
That  falls  from  the  gray  butternut's  long  boughs. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  295 

So  centuries  passed  by,  and  still  the  woods 
Blossomed  in  spring,  and  reddened  when  the  year 
Grew  chill,  and  glistened  in  the  frozen  rains 
Of  winter,  till  the  white  man  swung  the  axe 
Beside  thee  —  signal  of  a  mighty  change. 
Then  all  around  was  heard  the  crash  of  trees, 
Trembling  awhile  and  rushing  to  the  ground, 
The  low  of  ox,  and  shouts  of  men  who  fired 
The  brushwood,  or  who  tore  the  earth  with  ploughs. 
The  grain  sprang  thick  and  tall,  and  hid  in  green 
The  blackened  hillside ;  ranks  of  spiky  maize 
Rose  like  a  host  embattled  ;  the  buckwheat 
Whitened  broad  acres,  sweetening  with  its  flowers 
The  August  wind.     White  cottages  were  seen 
With  rose-trees  at  the  windows  ;  barns  from  which 
Swelled  loud  and  shrill  the  cry  of  chanticleer ; 
Pastures  where  rolled  and  neighed  the  lordly  horse, 
And  white  flocks  browsed  and  bleated.      A  rich 

turf 

Of  grasses  brought  from  far  o'ercrept  thy  bank, 
Spotted  with  the  white  clover.  Blue-eyed  girls 
Brought  pails,  and  dipped  them  in  thy  crystal 

pool ; 

And  children,  ruddy-cheeked  and  flaxen-haired, 
Gathered  the  glistening  cowslip  from  thy  edge. 
Since  then,  what  steps  have  trod  thy  border ! 

Here 

On  thy  green  bank,  the  woodman  of  the  swamp 
Has  laid  his  axe,  the  reaper  of  the  hill 


296  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

His  sickle,  as  they  stooped  to  taste  thy  stream. 
The  sportsman,  tired  with  wandering  in  the  still 
September  noon,  has  bathed  his  heated  brow 
In  thy  cold  current.     Shouting  boys,  let  loose 
For  a  wild  holiday,  have  quaintly  shaped 
Into  a  cup  the  folden  linden  leaf, 
And  dipped  thy  sliding  crystal.     From  the  wars 
Returning,  the  plumed  soldier  by  thy  side 
Has  sat,  and  mused  how  pleasant  'twere  to  dwell 
In  such  a  spot,  and  be  as  free  as  thou, 
And  move  for  no  man's  bidding  more.     At  eve, 
When  thou  wert  crimson  with  the  crimson  sky, 
Lovers  have  gazed  upon  thee,  and  have  thought 
Their  mingled  lives  should  flow  as  peacefully 
And  brightly  as  thy  waters.     Here  the  sage, 
Gazing  into  thy  self-replenished  depth, 
Has  seen  eternal  order  circumscribe 
And  bind  the  motions  of  eternal  change, 
And  from  the  gushing  of  thy  simple  fount 
Has  reasoned  to  the  mighty  universe. 

Is  there  no  other  change  for  thee,  that  lurks 
Among  the  future  ages  ?     Will  not  man 
Seek  out  strange  arts  to  wither  and  deform 
The  pleasant  landscape  which  thou  makest  green  ? 
Or  shall  the  veins  that  feed  thy  constant  stream 
Be  choked  in  middle  earth,  and  flow  no  more 
Forever,  that  the  water-plants  along 
Thy  channel  perish,  and  the  bird  in  vain 
Alight  to  drink  ?     Haply  shall  these  green  hills 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  297 

Sink,  with  the  lapse  of  years,  into  the  gulf 
Of  ocean  waters,  and  thy  source  be  lost 
Amidst  the  bitter  brine  ?     Or  shall  they  rise 
Upheaved  in  broken  cliffs  and  airy  peaks, 
Haunts  of  the  eagle  and  the  snake,  and  thou 
Gush  midway  from  the  bare  and  barren  steep  ? 


THE   WINDS. 


I. 

YE  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 
Softly  ye  played  a  few  brief  hours  ago ; 

Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee  ;  ye  tossed  the  hair 
O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow ; 

Ye  rolled  the  round  white  cloud  through  depths  of 
blue  ; 

Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew ; 

Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 

II. 

How  are  ye   changed  !      Ye  take  the  cataract's 
sound ; 

Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  and  its  might ; 
The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground ; 

The  valley  Woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 
The  clouds  before  you  shoot  like  eagles  past ; 
The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 
Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 

Skyward,  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 
298 


THE   WINDS.  299 

III. 

The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain, 
To  'scape  your  wrath;  ye  seize  and  dash  them 

dead. 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain ; 

The  harvest  field  becomes  a  river's  bed ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drowned, 
And  wailing  voices,  'midst  the  tempest's  sound, 
Rise,  as  the  rushing  waters  swell  and  spread. 

IV. 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 
A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray ; 

Ye  fling  its  floods  around  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's 
spray. 

See  !  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 

Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 

And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings, 
And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

Y. 

Why  rage  ye  thus  ?  —  no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made  you  mad;  no  tyrant,  strong  through 
fear, 

Has  chained  your  pinions  till  ye  wrenched  them  free, 
And  rushed  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere : 


300  -     BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow ; 
Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go ; 
Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of 

snow, 
Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 

VI. 

0  ye  wild  winds,  a  mightier  Power  than  yours 

In  chains  upon  the  shore  of  Europe  lies ; 
The  sceptered  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures, 
Watch   his   mute  throes   with  terror   in    their 

eyes: 

And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand, 
And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band, 
And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand, 
To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 

VII. 

Yet  oh,  when  that  wronged  Spirit  of  our  race 
Shall   break,    as   soon   he   must,   his   long-worn 

chains, 
And  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place, 

Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 
Let  him  not  rise,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air, 
To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare, 
To  fill  the  earth  with  woe,  and  blot  her  fair 

Unconscious    breast    with    blood    from    human 


THE   WINDS.  301 

VIII. 

But  may  he  like  the  Spring-time  come  abroad, 

Who  crumbles  winter's  gyves  with  gentle  might, 
When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  God, 

Come  spouting  up  the  unsealed  springs  to  light; 
Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  feet, 
The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnings  sweet, 
And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost  meet, 
Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient  night. 


THE   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 


I. 

HERE  we  halt  our  march,  and  pitch  our  tent, 

On  the  rugged  forest  ground, 
And  light  our  fire  with  the  branches  rent, 

By  winds  from  the  beeches  round. 
Wild  storms  have  torn  this  ancient  wood, 

But  a  wilder  is  at  hand, 
With  hail  of  iron  and  rain  of  blood, 

To  sweep  and  scath  the  land. 


II. 

How  the  dark  waste  rings  with  voices  shrill, 

That  startle  the  sleeping  bird, 
To-morrow  eve  must  the  voice  be  still, 

And  the  step  must  fall  unheard. 
The  Briton  lies  by  the  blue  Champlain, 

In  Ticonderoga's  towers, 
And  ere  the  sun  rise  twice  again, 

The  towers  and  the  lake  are  ours. 


THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS.  3Q3 

III. 

Fill  up  the  bowl  from  the  brook  that  glides, 

Where  the  fireflies  light  the  brake ; 
A  ruddier  juice  the  Briton  hides, 

In  his  fortress  by  the  lake. 
Build  high  the  fire,  till  the  panther  leap 

From  his  lofty  perch  in  fright, 
And  we'll  strengthen  our  weary  arms  with  sleep, 

For  the  deeds  of  to-morrow  night. 


THE  DEATH   OF  SCHILLER. 


'Tis  said,  when  Schiller's  death  drew  nigh, 
The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 

To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human  kind. 


Then  strayed  the  poet,  in  his  dreams, 
By  Eome  and  Egypt's  ancient  graves ; 

Went  up  the  New  World's  forest  streams, 
Stood  in  the  Hindoo's  temple-caves. 


Walked  with  the  Pawnee,  fierce  and  stark, 
The  bearded  Tartar,  'midst  his  herds, 

The  peering  Chinese,  and  the  dark 
False  Malay  uttering  gentle  words. 

How  could  he  rest  ?  even  then  he  trod 
The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown ; 

Already,  from  the  seat  of  God, 
A  ray  upon  his  garments  shone ;  — 


THE  DEATH  OF  SCHILLER.  305 

Shone  and  awoke  that  strong  desire 
For  love  and  knowledge  reached  not  here, 

Till  death  set  free  his  soul  of  fire, 
To  plunge  into  its  fitting  sphere. 

Then  —  who  shall  tell  how  deep,  how  bright, 
The  abyss  of  glory  opened  round  ? 

How  thought  and  feeling  flowed  like  light, 
Through  ranks  of  being  without  bound  ? 


LIFE. 


OH  life  !  I  breathe  thee  in  the  breeze, 

I  feel  thee  bounding  in  my  veins, 
'  I  see  thee  in  these  stretching  trees, 

These  flowers,  this  still  rock's  mossy  stains 

This  stream  of  odors  flowing  by 

From  clover-field  and  clumps  of  pine, 

This  music,  thrilling  all  the  sky, 

From  all  the  morning  birds,  are  thine. 

Thou  fill'st  with  joy  this  little  one, 
That  leaps  and  shouts  beside  me  here, 

Where  Isar's  clay-white  rivulets  run 

Through  the  dark  woods  like  frighted  deer. 

Ah !  must  thy  mighty  breath,  that  wakes 
Insect  and  bird,  and  flower  and  tree, 

From  the  low  trodden  dust,  and  makes 
Their  daily  gladness,  pass  from  me  — 


LIFE.  307 

Pass,  pulse  by  pulse,  till  o'er  the  ground 

These  limbs,  now  strong,  shall  creep  with  pain, 

And  this  fair  world  of  sight  and  sound 
Seem  fading  into  night  again  ? 

The  things,  oh  LIFE  !   thou  quickenest,  all 
Strive  upward  toward  the  broad  bright  sky, 

Upward  and  outward,  and  they  fall 
Back  to  earth's  bosom  when  they  die. 

All  that  have  borne  the  touch  of  death, 

All  that  shall  live,  lie  mingled  there, 
Beneath  that  veil  of  bloom  and  breath, 

That  living  zone  'twixt  earth  and  air- 
There  lies  my  chamber  dark  and  still, 

The  atoms  trampled  by  my  feet, 
There  wait,  to  take  the  place  I  fill 

In  the  sweet  air  and  sunshine  sweet. 

Well,  I  have  had  my  turn,  have  been 
Kaised  from  the  darkness  of  the  clod, 

And  for  a  glorious  moment  seen 

The  brightness  of  the  skirts  of  God ; 

And  knew  the  light  within  my  breast, 
Though  wavering  oftentimes  and  dim, 

The  power,  the  will,  that  never  rest, 
And  cannot  die,  were  all  from  him. 


308  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Dear  child !   I  know  that  thou  wilt  grieve, 
To  see  me  taken  from  thy  love, 

Wilt  seek  my  grave  at  Sabbath  eve, 
And  weep  and  scatter  flowers  above. 

Thy  little  heart  will  soon  be  healed, 
And  being  shall  be  bliss,  till  thou 

To  younger  forms  of  life  must  yield, 
The  place  thou  fill'st  with  beauty  now. 

When  we  descend  to  dust  again, 
Where  will  the  final  dwelling  be, 

Of  Thought  and  all  its  memories  then, 
My  lore  for  thee,  and  thine  for  me  ? 


A  PRESENTIMENT. 


"  OH  father,  let  us  hence  —  for  hark, 
A  fearful  murmur  shakes  the  air ; 

The  clouds  are  coming  swift  and  dark  ;  — • 
What  horrid  shapes  they  wear ! 

A  winged  giant  sails  the  sky  ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly  ! " 

"  Hush,  child ;  it  is  a  grateful  sound, 
That  beating  of  the  summer  shower  — 

Here,  where  the  boughs  hang  close  around. 
Well  pass  a  pleasant  hour, 

Till  the  fresh  wind,  that  brings  the  rain, 

Has  swept  the  broad  heaven  clear  again." 

"  Nay,  father,  let  us  haste  —  for  see, 
That  horrid  thing  with  horned  brow  — 

His  wings  o'erhang  this  very  tree, 
He  scowls  upon  us  now  ; 

His  huge  black  arm  is  lifted  high ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly  !  " 


310  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"Hush,  child; "  but,  as  the  father  spoke, 
Downward  the  livid  firebolt  came, 

Close  to  his  ear  the  thunder  broke, 
And,  blasted  by  the  flame, 

The  child  lay  dead ;  while,  dark  and  still, 

Swept  the  grim  cloud  along  the  hill. 


THE   FUTURE  LIFE. 


How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 

When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  sereneet  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest   throbs  to  me  were 

given  ? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

Shall  it  be  banished  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 
311 


312  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there ;  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  hath  left  its  scar  —  that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this  — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love  —  till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


THE   OLD   MAN'S   COUNSEL. 


AMONG  our  hills  and  valleys,  I  have  known 
Wise   and   grave   men,  who,  while  their  diligent 

hands 

Tendered  or  gathered  in  the  fruits  of  earth, 
Were  reverent  learners  in  the  solemn  school 
Of  nature.     Not  in  vain  to  them  were  sent 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  or  the  vernal  shower 
That  darkened  the  brown  tilth,  or  snow  that  beat 
On  the  white  winter  hills.     Each  brought,  in  turn, 
Some  truth,  some  lesson  on  the  life  of  man, 
Or  recognition  of  the  Eternal  mind 
Who  veils  his  glory  with  the  elements. 

One    such  I   knew   long   since,   a  white-haired 

man, 

Pithy  of  speech,  and  merry  when  he  would ; 
A  genial  optimist,  who  daily  drew 
From  what  he  saw  his  quaint  moralities. 
Kindly  he  held  communion,  though  so  old, 
With  me  a  dreaming  boy,  and  taught  me  much 
That  books  tell  not,  and  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 
313 


314  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

The  sun  of  May  was  bright  in  middle  heaven, 
And  steeped  the  sprouting  forests,  the  green  hills 
And  emerald  wheat-fields,  in  his  yellow  light. 
Upon  the  apple-tree,  where  rosy  buds 
Stood  clustered,  ready  to  burst  forth  in  bloom, 
The  robin  warbled  forth  his  full  clear  note 
For  hours,  and  wearied  not.     Within  the  woods, 
Whose  young  and  half-transparent  leaves  scarce 

cast 

A  shade,  gay  circles  of  anemones 
Danced  on  their  stalks ;  the  shadbush,  white  with 

flowers, 

Brightened  the  glens ;  the  new-leaved  butternut 
And  quivering  poplar  to  the  roving  breeze 
Gave  a  balsamic  fragrance.     In  the  fields 
I  saw  the  pulses  of  the  gentle  wind 
On  the  young  grass.     My  heart  was  touched  with 

i°y 

At  so  much  beauty,  flushing  every  hour 
Into  a  fuller  beauty ;  but  my  friend, 
The  thoughtful  ancient,  standing  at  my  side, 
Gazed  on  it  mildly  sad.     I  asked  him  why. 

"Well  may'st  thou  join  in  gladness,"  he  replied, 
"With  the  glad  earth,  her  springing  plants  and 

flowers, 

And  this  soft  wind,  the  herald  of  the  green 
Luxuriant  summer.     Thou  art  young  like  them, 
And  well  may'st  thou  rejoice.    But  while  the  flight 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.  315 

Of  seasons  fills  and  knits  thy  spreading  frame, 
It  withers  mine,  and  thins  my  hair,  and  dims 
These  eyes,   whose   fading    light    shall    soon    be 

quenched 
In  utter  darkness.     Hearest  thou  that  bird?" 

I  listened,  and  from  'midst  the  depth  of  woods 
Heard  the  love-signal  of  the  grouse,  that  wears 
A  sable  ruff  around  his  mottled  neck ; 
Partridge  they  call  him  by  our  northern  streams, 
And  pheasant  by  the  Delaware.     He  beat 
'Gainst  his  barred  sides  his  speckled  wings,  and 

made 

A  sound  like  distant  thunder ;  slow  the  strokes 
At  first,  then  fast  and  faster,  till  at  length 
They  passed  into  a  murmur  and  were  still. 

"There  hast  thou,"  said  my  friend,  "a  fitting 

type 

Of  human  life.     'Tis  an  old  truth,  I  know, 
But  images  like  these  revive  the  power 
Of  long  familiar  truths.     Slow  pass  our  days 
In  childhood,  and  the  hours  of  light  are  long 
Betwixt  the  morn  and  eve  ;  with  swifter  lapse 
They  glide  in  manhood,  and  in  age  they  fly ; 
Till  days  and  seasons  flit  before  the  mind 
As  flit  the  snow-flakes  in  a  winter  storm, 
Seen  rather  than  distinguished.     Ah  !  I  seem 
As  if  I  sat  within  a  helpless  bark, 


316  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

By  swiftly  running  waters  hurried  on 

To  shoot  some  mighty  cliff.     Along  the  banks 

Grove  after  grove,  rock  after  frowning  rock, 

Bare  sands  and  pleasant  homes,  and  flowery  nooks, 

And  isles  and  whirlpools  in  the  stream,  appear 

Each  after  each,  but  the  devoted  skiff 

Darts  by  so  swiftly  that  their  images 

Dwell  not  upon  the  mind,  or  only  dwell 

In  dim  confusion ;  faster  yet  I  sweep 

By  other  banks  and  the  great  gulf  is  near. 

"  Wisely,  my  son,  while  yet  thy  days  are  long, 
And  this  fair  change  of  seasons  passes  slow, 
Gather  and  treasure  up  the  good  they  yield  — 
All  that  they  teach  of  virtue,  of  pure  thoughts 
And  kind  affections,  reverence  for  thy  God 
And  for  thy  brethren ;  so  when  thou  shalt  come 
Into  these  barren  years,  thou  may'st  not  bring 
A  mind  unfurnished  and  a  withered  heart." 

Long  since  that  white-haired  ancient  slept  —  but 

still, 
When    the  red    flower-buds    crowd    the    orchard 

bough, 

And  the  ruffed  grouse  is  drumming  far  within 
The  woods,  his  venerable  form  again 
Is  at  my  side,  his  voice  is  in  my  ear. 


A   SERENADE. 
(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


IF  slumber,  sweet  Lisena ! 

Have  stolen  o'er  thine  eyes, 
As  night  steals  o'er  the  glory 

Of  spring's  transparent  skies ; 

Wake,  in  thy  scorn  and  beauty, 
And  listen  to  the  strain 

That  murmurs  my  devotion, 
That  mourns  for  thy  disdain. 

Here  by  the  door  at  midnight, 
I  pass  the  dreary  hour, 

"With  plaintive  sounds  profaning 
The  silence  of  thy  bower ; 

A  tale  of  sorrow  cherished 

Too  fondly  to  depart, 
Of  wrong  from  love  the  flatterer, 

And  from  my  own  wild  heart. 
317 


318  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Twice,  o'er  this  vale,  the  seasons 
Have  brought  and  borne  away 

The  January  tempest, 
The  genial  wind  of  May ; 

Yet  still  my  plaint  is  uttered, 
My  tears  and  sighs  are  given 

To  earth's  unconscious  waters, 
And  wandering  winds  of  heaven. 

I  saw  from  this  fair  region, 
The  smile  of  summer  pass, 

And  myriad  frost-stars  glitter 
Among  the  russet  grass ; 

While  winter  seized  the  streamlets 
That  fled  along  the  ground, 

And  fast  in  chains  of  crystal 
The  truant  murmurers  bound. 

I  saw  that  to  the  forest 

The  nightingales  had  flown, 

And  every  sweet-voiced  fountain 
Had  hushed  its  silver  tone. 

The  maniac  winds,  divorcing 
The  turtle  from  his  mate, 

Baved  through  the  leafy  beeches, 
And  left  them  desolate. 


A   SERENADE.  319 

Now  May,  with  life  and  music, 

The  blooming  valley  fills, 
And  rears  her  flowery  arches 

For  all  the  little  rills. 

The  minstrel  bird  of  evening 

Comes  back  on  joyous  wings,. 
And,  like  the  harp's  soft  murmur, 

Is  heard  the  gush  of  springs. 

And  deep  within  the  forest 

Are  wedded  turtles  seen, 
Their  nuptial  chambers  seeking  — 

Their  chambers  close  and  green. 

The  rugged  trees  are  mingling 

Their  flowery  sprays  in  love ; 
The  ivy  climbs  the  laurel, 

To  clasp  the  boughs  above. 

They  change  —  but  thou,  Lisena, 

Art  cold  while  I  complain : 
Why  to  thy  lover  only 

Should  spring  return  in  vain  ? 


TO  THE   MEMORY   OF    WILLIAM 
LEGGETT. 


THE  earth  may  ring,  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  echoes  of  a  glorious  name, 

But  he,  whose  loss  our  tears  deplore, 
Has  left  behind  him  more  than  fame. 

For  when  the  death  frost  came  to  lie 
On  Leggett's  warm  and  mighty  heart, 

And  quenched  his  bold  and  friendly  eye, 
His  spirit  did  not  all  depart. 

The  words  of  fire  that  from  his  pen 
Were  flung  upon  the  lucid  page, 

Still  move,  still  shake  the  hearts  of  men, 
Amid  a  cold  and  coward  age. 

His  love  of  truth,  too  warm,  too  strong 
For  Hope  or  Fear  to  chain  or  chill, 

His  hate  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 
Burn  in  the  breasts  he  kindled  still. 


320 


AN  EVENING  REVERY. 
(FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  POEM.) 


THE  summer  day  is  closed  —  the  sun  is  set : 
Well  they  have   done  their   office,   those    bright 

hours, 

The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly  out 
In  the  red  West.     The  green  blade  of  the  ground 
Has  risen,  and  herds  have  cropped  it;  the  young 

twig 

Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the  sun ; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste  have  blown 
And  withered ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon  the  soil, 
From  bursting  cells,  and  in  their  graves  await 
Their  resurrection.     Insects  from  the  pools 
Have  filled  the  air  awhile  with  humming  wings, 
That  now  are  still  forever ;  painted  moths 
Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,  and  died  again ; 
The  mother-bird  hath  broken,  for  her  brood, 
Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved  them  from  the  nest, 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.     In  bright  alcoves, 
In  woodland  cottages  with  barky  walls, 
In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous  town, 
321 


322  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Mothers  have  clasped  with  joy  the  new-born  babe. 

Graves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the  shore 

Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 

Of  the  thronged  city,  have  been  hollowed  out 

And  filled,   and   closed.      This   day   hath    parted 

friends 

That  ne'er  before  were  parted ;  it  hath  knit 
New  friendships ;  it  hath  seen  the  maiden  plight 
Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him  who  long 
Had  wooed;  and  it  hath  heard,  from  lips  which 

late 

Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh  word, 
That  told  the  wedded  one  her  peace  was  flown. 
Farewell  to  the  sweet  sunshine !     One  glad  day 
Is  added  now  to  Childhood's  merry  days, 
And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet  Age. 
Still  the  fleet  hours  run  on ;  and  as  I  lean, 
Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps  are  lit, 
By  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and  those  who 

twine 

Mowers  for  the  bride.     The  mother  from  the  eyes 
Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  painful  light, 
And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn  breath. 
Oh  thou  great  Movement  of  the  Universe, 
Or  Change ,  or  Flight  of  Time  —  for  ye  are  one ! 
That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible  scene 
Into  night's  shadow  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 
I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me  on, 


AN  EVENING  REVERT.  323 

Yet  know  not  whither.     Man  foretells  afar 
The  courses  of  the  stars ;  the  very  hour 
He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright; 
Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and  of  Death 
Come  unforewarned.     Who  next,  of  those  I  love, 
Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 
From  virtue  ?     Strife  with  foes,  or  bitterer  strife 
With  friends,   or    shame    and    general  .scorn    of 

men  — 

Which  who  can  bear  ?  —  or  the  fierce  rack  of  pain, 
Lie  they  within  my  path  ?     Or  shall  the  years 
Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive  pace, 
Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  ? 
Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 
Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my  strength, 
Impend  around  me  ?    Oh !   beyond  that  bourne, 
In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  which  begins 
At  that  dread  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 
Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress  clothe 
Its     workings  ?     Gently  —  so      have     good    men 

taught  — 

Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 
Into  the  new ;  the  eternal  flow  of  things, 
Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven, 
Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace. 


THE   PAINTED   CUP. 


THE  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  Painted  Cup. 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 
That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 
To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 
On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel  bowers, 
And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.     Call  not  up, 
Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude, 
The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world ; 
But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 
Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming-birds, 
To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless  lawns 
The  morning  sun  looks  hot.     Or  let  the  wind 
O'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 
A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry  plant, 
To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  slight  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 
324 


THE  PAINTED   CUP.  325 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.     Well  — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers. 
Lingering  amid  the  bloomy  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshippers  are  gone  — 
Slender  and  small,  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine ;  let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass ; 
And  touching,  with  his  cherry  lips,  the  edge 
Of  those  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew. 


A  DREAM. 


"I  HAD  a  dream  —  a  strange,  wild  dream — " 

.Said  a  dear  voice  at  early  light ; 
"  And  even  yet  its  shadows  seem 

To  linger  in  my  waking  sight. 

"  Earth,  green  with  spring,  and  fresh  with  dew, 
And  bright  with  morn,  before  me  stood ; 

And  airs  just  wakened  softly  blew 
On  the  young  blossoms  of  the  wood. 

"  Birds  sang  within  the  sprouting  shade, 
Bees  hummed  amid  the  whispering  grass, 

And  children  prattled  as  they  played 
Beside  the  rivulet's  dimpling  glass. 

"  Fast  climbed  the  sun  —  the  flowers  were  flown, 
There  played  no  children  in  the  glen  ; 

For  some  were  gone,  and  some  were  grown 
To  blooming  dames  and  bearded  men. 


A  DREAM.  327 

"'Twas  noon,  'twas  summer  —  I  beheld 
Woods  darkening  in  the  flush  of  day, 

And  that  bright  rivulet  spread  and  swelled, 
A  mighty  stream,  with  creek  and  bay. 

"  And  here  was  love,  and  there  was  strife, 
And  mirthful  shouts,  and  wrathful  cries, 

And  strong  men,  struggling  as  for  life, 
With  knotted  limbs  and  angry  eyes. 

"  Now  stooped  the  sun  —  the  shades  grew  thin ; 

The  rustling  paths  were  piled  with  leaves ; 
And  sun-burnt  groups  were  gathering  in, 

From  the  shorn  field,  its  fruits  and  sheaves. 

"  The  river  heaved  with  sullen  sounds ; 

The  chilly  wind  was  sad  with  moans  ; 
Black  hearses  passed,  and  burial-grounds 

Grew  thick  with  monumental  stones. 

"  Still  waned  the  day ;  the  wind  that  chased 
The  jagged  clouds  blew  chiller  yet ; 

The  woods  were  stripped,  the  fields  were  waote ; 
The  wintry  sun  was  near  its  set. 

"  And  of  the  young,  and  strong,  and  fair, 

A  lonely  remnant,  gray  and  weak, 
Lingered,  and  shivered  to  the  air 

Of  that  bleak  shore  and  water  bleak. 


328  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

"Ah !   age  is  drear,  and  death  is  cold ! 

I  turned  to  thee,  for  thou  wert  near, 
And  saw  thee  withered,  bowed,  and  old, 

And  woke,  all  faint  with  sudden  fear." 

'Twas  thus  I  heard  the  dreamer  say, 
And  bade  her  clear  her  clouded  brow ; 

"  For  thou  and  I,  since  childhood's  day, 
Have  walked  in  such  a  dream  till  now. 

"  Watch  we  in  calmness,  as  they  rise, 
The  changes  of  that  rapid  dream, 

And  note  its  lessons,  till  our  eyes 
Shall  open  in  the  morning  beam." 


THE   ANTIQUITY   OF   FREEDOM. 


HERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarled  pines, 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses;    here  the 

ground 
Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring 

up 

Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds, 
And    leaping    squirrels,    wandering    brooks,    and 

winds 

That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With    pale    blue    berries.     In     these    peaceful 

shades  — 

Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old  — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

Oh  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
329 


330  BE Y ANT'S  POEMS. 

When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou ;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword;  thy 

brow, 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has 

launched 

His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from 

heaven. 

Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
A.nd  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain ;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee 

bound, 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward :  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands : 
Thou    wert    twin-born    with    man.      In    pleasant 

fields, 

While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM.          331 

His  only  foes ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou    shalt  wax    stronger  with  the    lapse    of 

years, 

But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age ; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  fair  and  gallant  mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  around  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on 

thread, 

That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  ehaplets.     Oh !   not  yet 
May'st  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword ;  nor  yet,  0  Freedom  !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven.     But  wouldst  thou 

rest 


332  BEYANT'S  POEMS. 

Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


A  SUMMER  RAMBLE. 


THE  quiet  August  noon  has  come, 
A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky, 

The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb, 
In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds  that  rest 
Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng  ; 

The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast 
Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 

Oh,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours 

In  early  June  when  Earth  laughs  out, 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 
And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout. 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk, 
And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 

From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 
From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell. 

But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 

Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 
333 


334  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Away  !  I  will  not  be,  to-day, 
The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care. 

Away  from  desk  and  dust !  away ! 
I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 


Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad, 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 
The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 

I'll  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 

Come,  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 
The  gentle  meanings  of  thy  heart, 

One  day  amid  the  woods  with  me, 
From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart. 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 
The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 

The  blue  wild-flowers  thou  gatherest 
Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come,  and  when  mid  the  calm  profound, 
I  turn,  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 

They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 
Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 

Eest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 
And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze, 

Winding  and  widening,  till  they  fade 
In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze, 


A   SUMMER   RAMBLE.  335 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 
Still  as  its  spire,  and  yonder  flock 

At  rest  in  those  calm  fields  appear 
As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 


One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks  — 
There  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 
Comes  faintly  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  may  the  gazer  deem  that  when, 
Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 

And  heart-sick  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
The  good  forsakes  the  scene  of  life ; 

Like  this  deep  quiet  that,  awhile, 
Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 

Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 
Welcomes  him  to  a  happier  shore. 


A  NORTHERN  LEGEND. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND.) 


THERE  sits  a  lovely  maiden, 
The  ocean  murmuring  nigh ; 

She  throws  the  hook,  and  watches ; 
The  fishes  pass  it  by. 

A  ring,  with  a  red  jewel, 
Is  sparkling  on  her  hand ; 

Upon  the  hook  she  binds  it, 
And  flings  it  from  the  land. 

Uprises  from  the  water 

A  hand  like  ivory  fair. 
What  gleams  upon  its  finger  ? 

The  golden  ring  is  there. 

Uprises  from  the  bottom 

A  young  and  handsome  knight ; 
In  golden  scales  he  rises, 

That  glitter  in  the  light. 
336 


A  NORTHERN  LEGEND.  337 

The  maid  is  pale  with  terror  — 

"  Nay,  Knight  of  Ocean,  nay, 
It  was  not  thee  I  wanted ; 

Let  go  the  ring,  I  pray." 


"  Ah,  maiden,  not  to  fishes 

The  bait  of  gold  is  thrown ; 
The  ring  shall  never  leave  me, 
And  thou  must  be  my  own." 


THE   MAIDEN'S   SORROW. 


SEVEN  long  years  has  the  desert  rain 
Dropped  on  the  clods  that  hide  thy  face ; 

Seven  long  years  of  sorrow  and  pain 
I  have  thought  of  thy  burial-place. 

Thought  of  thy  fate  in  the  distant  West, 
Dying  with  none  that  loved  thee  near ; 

They  who  flung  the  earth  on  thy  breast 
Turned  from  the  spot  without  a  tear. 

There,  I  think,  on  that  lonely  grave, 
Violets  spring  in  the  soft  May  shower ; 

There,  in  the  summer  breezes,  wave 
Crimson  phlox  and  moccasin  flower. 

There  the  turtles  alight,  and  there 
Feeds  with  her  fawn  the  timid  doe ; 

There,  when  the  winter  woods  are  bare, 
Walks  the  wolf  on  the  crackling  snow. 

Soon  wilt  thou  wipe  my  tears  away ; 

All  my  task  upon  earth  is  done ; 
My  poor  father,  old  and  gray, 

Slumbers  beneath  the  churchyard  stone. 


A  MAIDEN'S  SORROW.  339 

In  the  dreams  of  my  lonely  bed, 

Ever  thy  form  before  me  seems ; 
All  night  long  I  talk  with  the  dead, 

All  day  long  I  think  of  my  dreams. 

This  deep  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches, 

This  long  pain,  a  sleepless  pain  — 
When  the  Father  my  spirit  takes, 

I  shall  feel  it  no  more  again. 


THE  RETURN  OF  YOUTH. 


MY  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime, 
For  thy  fair  youthful  years  too  swift  of  flight ; 
Thou  musest,  with  wet  eyes,  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful  hopes  that  filled  the  world  with 

light,  — 
Years  when  thy  heart  was  bold,  thy  hand  was 

strong, 
And  quick  the  thought  that  moved  thy  tongue  to 


And  willing  faith  was  thine,  and  scorn  of  wrong 
Summoned  the  sudden  crimson  to  thy  cheek. 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days, 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep ; 
A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slopes  downward  to  the  place  of  common  sleep ; 
And   they   who  walked  with  thee   in   life's  first 
stage, 

Leave  one  by  one  thy  side,  and,  waiting  near, 
Thou  seest  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age  — 

Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness  and  fear. 
340 


THE  RETURN  OF  YOUTH.       341 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 

Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die. 
Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn, 

Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky ; 
Waits,  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wings  and 
hides, 

Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour ; 
Waits,  like  the  vanished  spring,  that  slumbering 
bides 

Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There,  shall    he  welcome    thee,  when  thou  shalt 
stand 

On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more 

sweet 
Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet. 
He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again, 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails  ? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear 

A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales  ; 
A  murmur,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore, 

Of  streams  that  water  banks  for  ever  fair, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air  ? 


A   HYMN   OF  THE   SEA. 


THE  sea  is  mighty,  but  a  mightier  sways 
His  restless   billows.      Thou,  whose    hands    have 

scooped 

His  boundless  gulfs  and  built  his  shore,  thy  breath, 
That  moved  in  the  beginning  o'er  his  face, 
Moves  o'er  it  evermore.     The  obedient  waves 
To  its  strong  motion  roll,  and  rise  and  fall. 
Still  from  that  realm  of  rain  thy  cloud  goes  up, 
As  at  the  first,  to  water  the  great  earth, 
And  keep  her  valleys  green.     A  hundred  realms 
Watch  its  broad  shadow  warping  on  the  wind, 
And  in  the  dropping  shower,  with  gladness  hear 
Thy  promise  of  the  harvest.     I  look  forth 
Over  the  boundless  blue,  where  joyously 
The  bright  crests  of  innumerable  waves 
Glance  to  the  sun  at  once,  as  when  the  hands 
Of  a  great  multitude  are  upward  flung 
In  acclamation.     I  behold  the  ships 
Gliding  from  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  to  isle, 
Or  stemming  toward  far  lands,  or  hastening  home 
From  the  Old  World.     It  is  thy  friendly  breeze 
That  bears  them,  with  the  riches  of  the  land, 
And  treasure  of  dear  lives,  till,  in  the  port, 
The  shouting  seaman  climbs  and  furls  the  sail. 
342 


A   HYMN  OF  THE  SEA.  343 

But  who  shall  bide  thy  tempest,  who  shall  face 
The  blast  that  wakes  the  fury  of  the  sea  ? 
Oh  God  !  thy  justice  makes  the  world  turn  pale, 
When  on  the  armed  fleet,  that  royally 
Bears  down  the  surges,  carrying  war,  to  smite 
Some  city,  or  invade  some  thoughtless  realm, 
Descends  the  fierce  tornado.     The  vast  hulks 
Are  whirled  like  chaff  upon  the  waves  ;  the  sails 
Fly,  rent  like  webs  of  gossamer ;  the  masts 
Are  snapped  asunder  ;  downward  from  the  decks, 
Downward  are  slung,  into  the  fathomless  gulf, 
Their  cruel  engines ;  and  their  hosts,  arrayed 
In  trappings  of  the  battle-field,  are  whelmed 
By  whirlpools,  or  dashed  dead  upon  the  rocks. 
Then  stand  the  nations  still  with  awe,  and  pause, 
A  moment,  from  the  bloody  work  of  war. 

These  restless  surges  eat  away  the  shores 
Of  earth's  old  continents ;  the  fertile  plain 
Welters  in  shallows,  headlands  crumble  down, 
And  the  tide  drifts  the  sea-sand  in  the  streets 
Of  the  drowned  city.     Thou,  meanwhile,  afar 
In  the  green  chambers  of  the  middle  sea, 
Where  broadest  spread  the  waters  and  the  line 
Sinks  deepest,  while  no  eye  beholds  thy  work, 
Creator !  thou  dost  teach  the  coral  worm 
To  lay  his  mighty  reefs.     From  age  to  age, 
He  builds  beneath  the  waters,  till,  at  last, 
His  bulwarks  overtop  the  brine,  and  check 
The  long  wave  rolling  from  the  southern  pole 
To  break  upon  Japan.     Thou  bid'st  the  fires, 


344  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

That  smoulder  under  ocean,  heave  on  high 
The  new-made  mountains,  and  uplift  their  peaks, 
A  place  of  refuge  for  the  storm-driven  bird. 
The  birds  and  wafting  billows  plant  the  rifts 
With  herb  and  tree  ;  sweet  fountains  gush  ;  sweet 

airs 

Eipple  the  living  lakes  that,  fringed  with  flowers, 
Are  gathered  in  the  hollows.     Thou  dost  look 
On  thy  creation  and  pronounce  it  good. 
Its  valleys,  glorious  with  their  summer  green, 
Praise  thee  in  silent  beauty,  and  its  woods, 
Swept  by  the  murmuring  winds  of  ocean,  join 
The  murmuring  shores  in  a  perpetual  hymn. 


NOON. 

(FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  POEM.) 


'T  is  noon.    At  noon  the  Hebrew  bowed  the  knee 
And  worshipped,  while  the  husbandmen  withdrew 
From  the  scorched  field,  and  the  wayfaring  man 
Grew  faint,  and  turned  aside  by  bubbling  fount, 
Or  rested  in  the  shadow  of  the  palm. 

I,  too,  amid  the  overflow  of  day, 
Behold  the  power  which  wields  and  cherishes 
The  frame  of  Nature.     From  this  brow  of  rock 
That  overlooks  the  Hudson's  western  marge, 
I  gaze  upon  the  long  array  of  groves, 
The  piles  and  gulfs  of  verdure  drinking  in 
The  grateful  heats.     They  love  the  fiery  sun  ; 
Their  broadening  leaves  grow  glossier,  and  their 

sprays 

Climb  as  he  looks  upon  them.     In  the  midst, 
The  swelling  river,  into  his  green  gulfs, 
Unshadowed  save  by  passing  sails  above, 
Takes  the  redundant  glory,  and  enjoys 
The  summer  in  his  chilly  bed.     Coy  flowers, 
345 


346  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

That  would  not  open  in  the  early  light, 

Push   back    their  plaited   sheaths.     The   rivulet's 

pool, 

That  darkly  quivered  all  the  morning  long 
In  the  cool  shade,  now  glimmers  in  the  sun ; 
And  o'er  its  surface  shoots,  and  shoots  again, 
The  glittering  dragon-fly,  and  deep  within 
Kun  the  brown  water-beetles  to  and  fro. 

A  silence,  the  brief  sabbath  of  an  hour, 
Eeigns  o'er  the  fields ;  the  laborer  sits  within 
His  dwelling ;  he  has  left  his  steers  awhile 
Unyoked  to  bite  the  herbage,  and  his  dog 
Sleeps    stretched    beside    the    door-stone    in    the 

shade. 

Now  the  gray  marmot,  with  uplifted  paws, 
No  more  sits  listening  by  his  den,  but  steals 
Abroad,  in  safety,  to  the  clover  field, 
And  crops  its  juicy  blossoms.     All  the  while 
A  ceaseless  murmur  from  the  populous  town 
Swells  o'er  these  solitudes :  a  mingled  sound 
Of  jarring  wheels,  and  iron  hoofs  that  clash 
Upon  the  stony  ways,  and  hammer-clang, 
And  creak  of  engines  lifting  ponderous  bulks, 
And  calls  and  cries,  and  tread  of  eager  feet, 
Innumerable,  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
Noon,  in  that  mighty  mart  of  nations,  brings 
No  pause  to  toil  and  care.     With  early  day 
Began  the  tumult,  and  shall  only  cease 
When  midnight,  hushing  one  by  one  the  sounds 
Of  bustle,  gathers  the  tired  brood  to  rest. 


NOON.  347 

Thus,  in  this  feverish  time,  when  love  of  gain 
And  luxury  possess  the  hearts  of  men, 
Thus  is  it  with  the  noon  of  human  life. 
We,  in  our  fervid  manhood,  in  our  strength 
Of  reason,  we,  with  hurry,  noise,  and  care, 
Plan,  toil,  and  strive,  and  pause  not  to  refresh 
Our  spirits  with  the  calm  and  beautiful 
Of  God's  harmonious  universe,  that  won 
Our  youthful  wonder ;  pause  not  to  inquire 
Why  we  are  here  ;  and  what  the  reverence 
Man  owes  to  man,  and  what  the  mystery 
That  links  us  to  the  greater  world,  beside 
Whose  borders  we  but  hover  for  a  space. 


THE   CROWDED   STREET. 


LET  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face ; 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass  —  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest ; 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread ; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 
348 


THE  CROWDED   STREET.  349 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye ! 

Goest  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow  ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 

Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 
Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light ! 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each,  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 
They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 

There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all, 
In  his  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life  that  seem 
In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


THE   WHITE-FOOTED   DEER. 


IT  was  a  hundred  years  ago, 
When,  by  the  woodland  ways, 

The  traveller  saw  the  wild  deer  drink, 
Or  crop  the  birchen  sprays. 

Beneath  the  hill,  whose  rocky  side 

O'erbrowed  a  grassy  mead, 
And  fenced  a  cottage  from  the  wind, 

A  deer  was  wont  to  feed. 

She  only  came  when  on  the  cliffs 

The  evening  moonlight  lay, 
And  no  man  knew  the  secret  haunts 

In  which  she  walked  by  day. 

White  were  her  feet,  her  forehead  showed 

A  spot  of  silvery  white, 
That  seemed  to  glimmer  like  a  star 

In  autumn's  hazy  night. 

And  here,  when  sang  the  whippoorwill, 
She  cropt  the  sprouting  leaves, 

And  here  her  rustling  steps  were  heard 
On  still  October  eves. 
350 


THE   WHITE-FOOTED  DEER.  351 

But  when  the  broad  midsummer  mooii 

Rose  o'er  the  grassy  lawn, 
Beside  the  silver-footed  deer 

There  grazed  a  spotted  fawn. 

The  cottage  dame  forbade  her  son 

To  aim  the  rifle  here  ; 
"  It  were  a  sin,"  she  said,  "  to  harm 
Or  fright  that  friendly  deer. 

"  This  spot  has  been  my  pleasant  home 

Ten  peaceful  years  and  more ; 
And  ever,  when  the  moonlight  shines, 
She  feeds  before  our  door. 

"The  red  men  say  that  here  she  walked 

A  thousand  moons  ago  ; 
They  never  raise  the  war-whoop  here, 
And  never  twang  the  bow. 

"  I  love  to  watch  her  as  she  feeds, 

And  think  that  all  is  well 
While  such  a  gentle  creature  haunts 
The  place  in  which  we  dwell." 

The  youth  obeyed,  and  sought  for  game 

In  forests  far  away, 
Where,  deep  in  silence  and  in  moss, 

The  ancient  woodland  lay. 

But  once,  in  autumn's  golden  time, 
He  ranged  the  wild  in  vain, 


852  BRYANT'S   POEMS. 

Nor  roused  the  pheasant  nor  the  deer, 
And  wandered  home  again. 

The  crescent  moon  and  crimson  eve 
Shone  with  a  mingling  light ; 

The  deer,  upon  the  grassy  mead, 
Was  feeding  full  in  sight. 

He  raised  the  rifle  to  his  eye, 

And  from  the  cliffs  around 
A  sudden  echo,  shrill  and  sharp, 

Gave  back  its  deadly  sound. 

Away  into  the  neighboring  wood 

The  startled  creature  flew, 
And  crimson  drops  at  morning  lay 

Amid  the  glimmering  dew. 

Next  evening  shone  the  waxing  moon 

As  sweetly  as  before  ; 
The  deer  upon  the  grassy  mead 

Was  seen  again  no  more. 

But  ere  that  crescent  moon  was  old, 

By  night  the  red  men  came, 
And  burnt  the  cottage  to  the  ground, 

And  slew  the  youth  and  dame. 

Now  woods  have  overgrown  the  mead, 
And  hid  the  cliffs  from  sight ; 

There  shrieks  the  hovering  hawk  at  noon, 
And  prowls  the  fox  at  night. 


THE  WANING  MOON. 


I'VE  watched  too  late  ;  the  morn  is  near ; 

One  look  at  God's  broad  silent  sky  ! 
Oh,  hopes  arid  wishes  vainly  dear, 

How  in  your  very  strength  ye  die  ! 

Even  while  your  glow  is  on  the  cheek, 
And  scarce  the  high  pursuit  begun, 

The  heart  grows  faint,  the  hand  grows  weak. 
The  task  of  life  is  left  undone. 

See  where  upon  the  horizon's  brim, 
Lies  the  still  cloud  in  gloomy  bars ; 

The  waning  moon,  all  pale  and  dim, 
Goes  up  amid  the  eternal  stars. 

Late,  in  a  flood  of  tender  light, 

She  floated  through  the  ethereal  blue, 

A  softer  sun,  that  shone  all  night 
Upon  the  gathering  beads  of  dew. 

And  still  thou  wanest,  pallid  moon ! 

The  encroaching  shadow  grows  apace ; 
Heaven's  everlasting  watchers  soon 

Shall  see  thee  blotted  from  thy  place. 
853 


354  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Oh,  Night's  dethroned  and  crownless  queen ! 

Well  may  thy  sad,  expiring  ray 
Be  shed  on  those  whose  eyes  have  seen 

Hope's  glorious  visions  fade  away. 

Shine  thou  for  forms  that  once  were  bright, 
For  sages  in  the  mind's  eclipse, 

For  those  whose  words  were  spells  of  might, 
But  falter  now  on  stammering  lips  ! 

In  thy  decaying  beam  there  lies 

Full  many  a  grave  on  hill  and  plain, 

Of  those  who  closed  their  dying  eyes 
In  grief  that  they  had  lived  in  vain. 

Another  night,  and  thou  among 

The  spheres  of  heaven  shalt  cease  to  shine, 
All  ray  less  in  the  glittering  throng 

Whose  lustre  late  was  quenched  in  thine. 

Yet  soon  a  new  and  tender  light 

From  out  thy  darkened  orb  shall  beam, 

And  broaden  till  it  shines  all  night 

On  glistening  dew  and  glimmering  stream 


THE   STREAM   OF  LIFE. 


OH  silvery  streamlet  of  the  fields, 

That  flowest  full  and  free  ! 
For  thee  the  rains  of  spring  return, 

The  summer  dews  for  thee  ; 
And  when  thy  latest  blossoms  die 

In  autumn's  chilly  showers, 
The  winter  fountains  gush  for  thee, 

Till  May  brings  back  the  flowers. 

Oh  Stream  of  Life  !  the  violet  springs 

But  once  beside  thy  bed ; 
But  one  brief  summer,  on  thy  path, 

The  dews  of  heaven  are  shed. 
Thy  parent  fountains  shrink  away, 

And  close  their  crystal  veins, 
And  where  thy  glittering  current  flowed 

The  dust  alone  remains. 
355 


NOTES. 


Page  7.  —  POEM  OF  THE  AGES. 

IN  this  poem,  written  and  first  printed  in  the  year  1821, 
the  Author  lias  endeavored,  from  a  survey  of  the  past  ages 
of  the  world,  and  of  the  successive  advances  of  mankind  in 
knowledge,  virtue,  and  happiness,  to  justify  and  confirm 
the  hopes  of  the  philanthropist  for  the  future  destinies  of 
the  human  race. 

Page  49.  —  THE  PBAIKIES. 

The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye. 
The  prairies  of  the  West  with  an  undulating  surface,  roll- 
ing prairies,  as  they  are  called,  present  to  the  unaccustomed 
eye  a  singular  spectacle  when  the  shadows  of  the  clouds 
are  passing  rapidly  over  them.  The  face  of  the  ground 
seems  to  fluctuate  and  toss  like  the  billows  of  the  sea. 

Page  49. the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 

Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not. 
I  have  seen  the  prairie-hawk  balancing  himself  in  the  air 
for  hours  together,  apparently  over  the  same  spot ;  probably 
watching  his  prey. 

Page  51. These  ample  fields 

Nourished  their  harvests. 

The  size  and  extent  of  the  mounds  in  the  valley  of  the 
Mississippi,  indicate  the  existence,  at  a  remote  period,  of  a 
nation  at  once  populous  and  laborious,  and  therefore  prob- 
ably subsisting  by  agriculture. 
357 


358  NOTES. 

Page  52. the  rude  conquerors 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs. 

Instances  are  not  wanting  of  generosity  like  this  among 
the  North  American  Indians  toward  a  captive  or  survivor 
of  a  hostile  tribe  on  which  the  greatest  cruelties  have  been 
exercised. 

Page  93.  —  THE  INDIAN  GIRL'S  LAMENT. 
Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair,  etc. 
"  The  unmarried  females  have  a  modest  falling  down  of 
the  hair  over  the  eyes."  — ELIOT. 

Page  98.  —  THE  MASSACRE  AT  Scio. 
This  poem,  written  about  the  time  of  the  horrible  butch- 
ery of  the  Sciotes  by  the  Turks,  in  1824,  has  been  more 
fortunate  than  most  poetical  predictions.  The  independ- 
ence of  the  Greek  nation,  which  it  foretold,  has  come  to 
pass,  and  the  massacre,  by  inspiring  a  deeper  detestation  of 
their  oppressors,  did  much  to  promote  that  event. 

Page  107.  — MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 
The  mountain  called  by  this  name  is  a  remarkable  preci- 
pice in  Great  Barrington,  overlooking  the  rich  and  pictu- 
resque valley  of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western  part  of 
Massachusetts.  At  the  southern  extremity  is,  or  was  a  few 
years  since,  a  conical  pile  of  small  stones,  erected,  accord- 
ing to  the  tradition  of  the  surrounding  country,  by  the  Ind- 
ians, in  memory  of  a  woman  of  the  Stockbridge  tribe, 
who  killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge  of  the  preci- 
pice. Until  within  a  few  years  past,  small  parties  of  that 
tribe  used  to  arrive  from  their  settlement  in  the  western 
part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  on  visits  to  Stockbridge, 
the  place  of  their  nativity  and  former  residence.  A  young 
woman  belonging  to  one  of  these  parties  related  to  a  friend 
of  the  author  the  story  on  which  the  poem  of  Monument 
Mountain  is  founded.  An  Indian  girl  had  formed  an  at- 
tachment for  her  cousin,  which,  according  to  the  customs  of 
the  tribe,  was  unlawful.  She  was,  in  consequence,  seized 


NOTES.  359 

with  a  deep  melancholy,  and  resolved  to  destroy  herself. 
In  company  with  a  female  friend  she  repaired  to  the  moun- 
tain, decked  out  for  the  occasion  in  all  her  ornaments,  and, 
after  passing  the  day  on  its  summit  in  singing  with  her 
companion  the  traditional  songs  of  her  nation,  she  threw 
herself  headlong  from  the  rock,  and  was  killed. 

Page  113.  —  THE  MURDERED  Tit AVELLEK. 
Some  years  since,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  remains  of  a 
human  body,  partly  devoured  by  wild  animals,  were  found 
in  a  woody  ravine,  near  a  solitary  road  passing  between  the 
mountains  west  of  the  village  of  Stockbridge.  It  was  sup- 
posed that  the  person  came  to  his  death  by  violence,  but 
no  traces  could  be  discovered  of  his  murderers.  It  was 
only  recollected  that  one  evening  in  the  course  of  the  pre- 
vious winter  a  traveller  had  stopped  at  an  inn  in  the  village 
of  West  Stockbridge;  that  he  had  inquired  the  way  to 
Stockbridge;  and  that,  in  paying  the  innkeeper  for  some- 
thing he  had  ordered,  it  appeared  that  he  had  a  consider- 
able sum  of  money  in  his  possession.  Two  ill-looking 
men  were  present,  and  went  out  about  the  same  time  that 
the  traveller  proceeded  on  his  journey.  During  the  winter, 
also,  two  men  of  shabby  appearance,  but  plentifully  sup- 
plied with  money,  had  lingered  for  awhile  about  the  village 
of  Stockbridge.  Several  years  afterward,  a  criminal,  about 
to  ^e  executed  for  a  capital  offence  in  Canada,  confessed 
that  he  had  been  concerned  in  murdering  a  traveller  in 
Stockbridge  for  the  sake  of  his  money.  Nothing  was  ever 
discovered  respecting  the  name  or  residence  of  the  persoo 
murdered. 

Page  117.  —THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF. 

Chained  in  the  market-place  he  stood,  etc. 

The  story  of  the  African  Chief,  related  in  this  ballad, 

may  be  found  in  the  African  Repository  for  April,  1825. 

The  subject  of  it  was  a  warrior  of  majestic  stature,  the 

brother  of  Yarradee,  king  of  the  Solima  nation.     He  had 

been  taken  in  battle,  and  was  brought  in  chains  for  sale  to 


360  NOTES. 

the  Rio  Pongas,  where  he  was  exhibited  in  the  market- 
place, liis  ankles  still  adorned  with  the  massy  rings  of  gold 
which  he  wore  when  captured.  The  refusal  of  his  captor 
to  listen  to  his  offers  of  ransom  drove  him  mad,  and  he  died 
a  maniac. 

Page  125.  —  THE  HUNTER'S  SERENADE. 
And  stoops  the  slim  papaya,  etc. 

Papaya  —  papaw,  custard-apple.  Flint,  in  his  excellent 
work  on  the  Geography  and  History  of  the  Western  States, 
thus  describes  this  tree  and  its  fruit: 

"  A  papaw  shrub  hanging  full  of  fruits,  of  a  size  and 
weight  so  disproportioned  to  the  stem,  and  from  under  long 
and  rich-looking  leaves,  of  the  same  yellow  with  the  ripened 
fruit,  and  of  an  African  luxuriance  of  growth,  is  to  us  one 
of  the  richest  spectacles  that  we  have  ever  contemplated  in 
the  array  of  the  woods.  The  fruit  contains  from  two  to 
six  seeds,  like  those  of  the  tamarind,  except  that  they  are 
double  the  size.  The  pulp  of  the  fruit  resembles  egg  cus- 
tard in  consistence  and  appearance.  It  has  the  same  creamy 
feeling  in  the  mouth,  and  unites  the  taste  of  eggs,  cream, 
sugar,  and  spice.  It  is  a  natural  custard,  too  luscious  for 
the  relish  of  most  people." 

Chateaubriand,  in  his  Travels,  speaks  disparagingly  of 
the  fruit  of  the  papaw;  but  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Flint, 
who  must  know  more  of  the  matter,  I  have  ventured  to 
make  my  western  lover  enumerate  it  among  the  delicacies 
of  the  wilderness. 

Page  128.  —  SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 
The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  famous  par- 
tisan warrior  of  South  Carolina,  form  an  interesting  chap- 
ter in  the  annals  of  the  American  revolution.  The  British 
troops  were  so  harassed  by  the  irregular  and  successful  war- 
fare which  he  kept  up  at  the  head  of  a  few  daring  followers, 
that  they  sent  an  officer  to  remonstrate  with  him  for  not 
coming  into  the  open  field  and  fighting  "  like  a  gentleman 
and  a  Christian," 


NOTES.  361 

Page  133.  — LOVE  AND  FOLLY.  — ( From  La  Fontaine.) 
This  is  rather  an  imitation  than  a  translation  of  the  poem 
of  the  graceful  French,  fabulist. 

Page  135.  —  FATIMA  AND  RADUAN. 

This,  and  the  following  poems  belong  to  that  class  of  an- 
cient Spanish  ballads  by  unknown  authors,  called  Romances 
Moriscos  —  Moriscan  romances  or  ballads.  They  were  com- 
posed in  the  14th  century,  some  of  them,  probably,  by  the 
Moors,  who  then  lived  intermingled  with  the  Christians; 
and  they  relate  the  loves  and  achievements  of  the  knights 
of  Grenada. 

Page  140.  —  THE  DEATH  OF  ALIATAK. 
Say,  Love  — for  thou  didst  see  her  tears,  etc. 
The  stanza  beginning  with  this  line  stands  thus  in  the 
original:  — 

Dilo  tu,  amor,(si  lo  viste; 

I  Mas  ay !  que  de  lastimado 
Diste  otro  nudo  a  la  venda, 
Para  no  ver  lo  que  ha  passado. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  so  poor  a  conceit  deforming  so  spirited 
a  composition  as  this  old  ballad,  but  I  have  preserved  it  in 
the  version.  It  is  one  of  those  extravagances  which  after- 
ward became  so  common  in  Spanish  poetry  when  Gongora 
introduced  the  estilo  culto,  as  it  was  called. 

Page  143.  —  THE  ALCAYDE  OF  MOLINA. 

These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thee,  etc. 

This  is  the  very  expression  of  the  original.  No  te  llamardn 
mis  ojos,  etc.  The  Spanish  poets  early  adopted  the  practice 
of  calling  a  lady  by  the  name  of  the  most  expressive  feature 
of  her  countenance,  her  eyes.  The  lover  styled  his  mistress 
"  ojos  bellos,"  beautiful  eyes,  "ojos  serenes,"  serene  eyes. 
Green  eyes  seem  to  have  been  anciently  thought  a  great 
beauty  in  Spain,  and  there  is  a  very  pretty  ballad  by  an  ab- 
sent lover,  in  which  he  addressed  his  lady  by  the  title  of 


362  NOTES. 

"green  eyes,"  supplicating  that  he  may  remain  in    he* 
remembrance. 

j  Ay  ojuelos  verdes! 
Ay  los  mis  ojuelos ! 
Ay,  hagan  los  cielos 
Que  de  mi  te  acuerdes! 

Page  151.  —  FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  PEDKO  DB  CASTRO 

Y  AN  AY  A. 

Las  Auroras  de  Diana,  in  which  the  original  of  these  lines 
is  contained,  is,  notwithstanding  it  was  praised  by  Lope  de 
Vega,  one  of  the  worst  of  the  old  Spanish  romances,  being  a 
tissue  of  riddles  and  affectations,  with  now  and  then  a  little 
poem  of  considerable  beauty. 

Page  159.  —  LOVE  IN  THE  AGE  OF  CHIVALRY. 
This  personification  of  the  passion  of  Love,  by  Peyre 
Vidal,  has  been  referred  to  as  a  proof  of  how  little  the  Pro- 
vencal poets  were  indebted  to  the  authors  of  Greece  and 
Rome  for  the  imagery  of  their  poems. 

Page  161.  —  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD.  —  ( From  the  Provencal  of 

Bernard  Eascas.) 

The  original  of  these  lines  is  thus  given  by  John  of  Nos- 
tradamus, in  his  lives  of  the  Troubadours,  in  a  barbarous 
Frenchified  orthography :  — 

Touta  kausa  mortala  una  fes  perira, 
Fors  que  1' amour  de  Dieu,  que  tousiours  durara. 
Tous  nostres  cors  vendran  essuchs,  coma  fa  1'eska, 
Lous  Aubres  leyssaran  lour  verdour  tendra  e  fresca, 
Lous  Ausselets  del  bosc  perdran  lour  kant  subtyeu, 
E  non  s'auzira  plus  lou  Rossignol  gentyeu. 
Lous  Buols  al  Pastourgage,  e  las  blankas  fedettas 
Sent'ran  lous  agulhons  de  las  mortals  Sagettas, 
Lous  crestas  d' Aries  fiers,  Renards  e  Loups  espars, 
Kabrols,  Cervys,  Chamous  Senglars  de  toutes  pars, 
Lous  Ours  hardys  e  forts,  seran  poudra,  e  Arena, 
Lou  Daulphin  en  la  Mar,  lou  Ton,  e  la  Balena, 


NOTES.  363 

Monstres  impetuous,  Ryaumes,  e  Comtas, 

Lous  Princes,  e  lous  Keys,  seran  per  mort  domtas. 

E  nota  ben  eysso  kascun :  la  Terra  granda, 

(Ou  1'Escritura  nient)  lou  fermament  que  branda, 

Prendra  autra  figura.     Enfin  tout  perira, 

Fors  que  1' Amour  de  Dieu,  que  touiour  durara. 

Page  163.  —THE  HURRICANE. 

This  poem  is  nearly  a  translation  from  one  by  Jose  Maria 
de  Herebia,  a  native  of  the  Island  of  Cuba,  who  published 
at  New  York,  six  or  seven  years  since,  a  volume  of  poems 
in  the  Spanish  language. 

Page  187.  — SONNET  — WILLIAM  TELL. 
Neither  this,  nor  any  of  the  other  sonnets  in  this  volume, 
with  the  exception  of  the  one  from  the  Portuguese,  is  framed 
according  to  the  legitimate  Italian  model,  which,  in  the 
author's  opinion,  possesses  no  peculiar  beauty  for  an  ear 
accustomed  only  to  the  metrical  forms  of  our  own  language. 
The  sonnets  in  this  collection  are  rather  poems  in  fourteen 
lines  than  sonnets. 

Page  203.  —  THE  CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND  VENUS. 
This  conjunction  was  said  in  the  common  calendars  to 
have  taken  place  on  the  2d  of  August,  1826.  This,  I  believe, 
was  an  error,  but  the  apparent  approach  of  the  planets  was 
sufficiently  near  for  poetical  purposes. 

Page  241.  —  THE  BURIAL-PLACE. 

The  first  half  of  this  fragment  may  seem  to  the  reader 
borrowed  from  the  essay  on  Rural  Funerals  in  the  4th  num- 
ber of  the  Sketch  Book.  The  lines  were,  however,  written 
more  than  a  year  before  that  number  appeared.  The  poem, 
unfinished  as  it  is,  would  not  have  been  admitted  into  this 
collection,  had  not  the  author  been  unwilling  to  lose  what 
had  the  honor  of  resembling  so  beautiful  a  composition. 
Page  289.  —  THE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL. 

The  incident  on  which  this  poem  is  founded,  was  related 
to  the  author  while  in  Europe,  in  a  letter  from  an  English 


364  NOTES. 

lady.  A  child  died  in  the  south  of  Italy,  and  when  they 
went  to  bury  it  they  found  it  revived  and  playing  with  the 
flowers  which,  after  the  manner  of  that  country,  had  been 
brought  to  grace  its  funeral. 

Page  293.  —  THE  FOUNTAIN. 
the  flower 


Of  Sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 

The  red  drops  fell  like  blood. 

The  Sanguinaria  Canadensis,  or  blood-root  as  it  is  com- 
monly called,  bears  a  delicate  white  flower  of  a  musky 
scent,  the  stem  of  which  breaks  easily,  and  distils  a  juice 
of  a  bright  red  color. 

Page  302.  —  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 

This  song  refers  to  the  expedition  of  the   Vermonters, 

commanded  by  Ethan  Allen,  by  whom  the  British  fort  of 

Ticonderoga  on  Lake  Champlain  was  surprised  and  taken 

In  May,  1775. 

Page  304.  —  THE  DEATH  OF  SCHILLER. 
'Tis  said,  when  Schiller's  death  drew  nigh, 

The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 
To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  human  kind. 
Shortly  before  the  death  of  Schiller,  he  was  seized  with  a 
strong  desire  to  travel  in  foreign  countries,  as  if  his  spirit 
had  a  presentiment  of  its  approaching  enlargement,  and 
already  longed  to  expatiate  in  a  wider  and  more  varied 
sphere  of  existence. 

Page  306.  —  LIFE. 
Where  Isar's  clay-white  rivulets  run 
Through  the  dark  woods  like  frighted  deer. 
Close  to  the  city  of  Munich,  in  Bavaria,  lies  the  spacious 
and  beautiful  pleasure  ground  called  the  English  Garden,  in 
which  these  lines  were  written,  originally  projected  and  laid 
out  by  our  countryman,  Count  Rumford,  under  the  auspices 
of  one  of  the  sovereigns  of   the  country.     Winding   walks 


NOTES.  365 

of  great  extent  pass  through  close  thickets  and  groves  inter- 
spersed with  lawns;  and  streams  diverted  from  the  river 
Isar  traverse  the  grounds  swiftly  in  various  directions,  the 
water  of  which,  stained  with  the  clay  of  the  soil  it  has  cor- 
roded in  its  descent  from  the  upper  country,  is  frequently 
of  a  turbid  white  color. 

Page  314.  — THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL. 

the  shadbush,  white  with  flowere, 

Brightened  the  glens. 

The  small  tree  named  by  the  botanist  Aronia  botyrapum. 
is  called  in  some  parts  of  our  country,  the  shadbush,  from 
the  circumstance  that  it  flowers  about  the  time  that  the 
shad  ascend  the  rivers  in  early  Spring.  Its  delicate  sprays, 
covered  with  white  blossoms  before  the  trees  are  yet  in  leaf, 
have  a  singularly  beautiful  appearance  in  the  woods. 

Page  315.  —  "  There  hast  thou,"  said  my  friend,  "  a  fitting 

type 
Of  human  life." 

I  remember  hearing  an  aged  man  in  the  country  compare 
the  slow  movement  of  time  in  early  life  and  its  swift  flight 
as  it  approaches  old  age,  to  the  drumming  of  a  partridge 
or  ruffled  grouse  in  the  woods  —  the  strokes  falling  slow  and 
distinct  at  first,  and  following  each  other  more  and  more 
rapidly,  till  they  end  at  last  in  a  whirring  sound. 

Page  321.  —  AN  EVENING  KEVERY.  —  (From  an  unfinished 

poem.) 

This  poem  and  that  entitled  the  Fountain,  with  one  or 
two  others  in  blank  verse,  were  intended  by  the  author  as 
portions  of  a  larger  poem,  in  which  they  may  hereafter 
take  their  place. 

Page  324.  —THE  PAINTED  CUP. 

The  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 


3G6  NOTES. 

Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire. 

The  Painted  Cup,  Euchroma  coccinea,  or  Bartsia  cocci- 
nea,  grows  in  great  abundance  in  the  hazel  prairies  of  the 
Western  States  when  its  scarlet  tufts  make  a  brilliant  ap- 
pearance in  the  midst  of  the  verdure.  The  Sangamon  is  a 
beautiful  river,  tributary  to  the  Illinois,  bordered  with  rich 
prairies. 


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